


Full of Briars

by Fire_Sign



Series: This Strange Eventful History [6]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-13 18:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11765889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: O, how full of briars is this working-day world!―William Shakespeare, As You Like It---------------When a friend of Rosie Sanderson goes missing, Phryne and Jack are left to navigate old habits and new understandings as they investigate.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Oookay, so this fic took _eight months_ , and it's technically still not complete. I canNOT with this madness. Never has a story come so close to me just walking away. This is the sequel to [Strange Capers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7741555/chapters/17648149) and [The Uses of Adversity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9282800/chapters/21037139), though I think there's enough explanation that it can stand alone. Since I don't expect that people have memorised every fic I've ever written, a brief summary:
> 
> **Strange Capers** takes place in November 1931. Phryne returns from two years in England, only to stumble across the arm of a man in a shark tank. Jack is called in to investigate, and the two must find their footing even as secrets threaten to tear them apart.
> 
>  **The Uses of Adversity** takes place in December 1931. At a tentative beginning, Phryne and Jack are attempting to take things slowly when the return of Margaret Fisher and the murder of her friend Celia leave them undercover as a married couple in South Gippsland. They find the murderer and the treasure he sought, but Jack is injured in the process.

###  **November 1923**

Jack stared at the letter in his hands, trying to think. Flipping the envelope over, he noticed for the first time that it was addressed to Rosie—it had been in the pile of mail on the desk in his study, and he hadn’t paid the envelopes any mind as he’d gone through it all. Bills. Letters from friends. An update from his solicitor about changes made to his will. And this.

Definitive proof that his wife of nearly a decade had had an affair while he was serving King and Country.

Taking a deep breath, he returned the letter to the envelope and stood. Rosie was out at some charity fundraiser or another, at her father’s side and no doubt charming half of Melbourne’s elite, and he was at home after a double shift. That seemed to be the way of it these days—she’d forged her own life in the time he was away, had never quite left the Sanderson family nest to make this—them—her real home. He found himself unable to blame her for that, at least; she had been so young, they both had, and then he had been gone with no certainty of return. And the man who had returned… well, Jack didn’t always like him very much.

Grabbing his hat and coat, Jack headed out of the study—dropping the envelope and incriminating letter it held into the box in the hallway that held Rosie’s correspondence—and through to the kitchen to pick up the steak and kidney pie Rosie had left behind for his dinner. He wondered whether to leave a note, and doubted she would care. Leaving the house without his hat, he walked slowly, cutting through Richmond until he came to a cottage that had been well kept. Had being the operative term—it was much less so at the moment; the flowerbeds were a mess, the punched-out window not yet replaced. Not bothering to knock, Jack made his way inside.

As expected, he found his best friend sitting in an overstuffed and oversized armchair—“It’s hideous,” Will had said when he’d bought it, “but there’s room for two.”—and drinking straight from a bottle. The curtains hadn’t been opened in days, and the air was stagnant.

“Evening Jack,” Will said, already well on his way to drunk. “I thought it wasn’t your turn to mind me until tomorrow.”

Jack dropped the pie onto the table.

“Rosie had an affair,” he said.

Will raised the bottle in offer.

“I’m not drinking that crap,” Jack said dismissively, crossing the room to the liquor cabinet and pulling down a bottle of mid-quality scotch and two tumblers. “And your mother would be furious to see you drinking out of the bottle. Have you eaten today?”

“Eva made me sandwiches for lunch,” said Will.

“Eat the fucking pie,” said Jack, taking a seat in the second armchair.

Raising his glass in Will’s direction, he tried very hard to ignore the little rag doll he saw sitting in the corner.

———

It was well past midnight when Jack made his way back to his own little home. Rosie was seated at the kitchen table, still draped in the evening gown and furs they couldn’t afford on a policeman’s salary.

“Working again, Jack?” she asked coolly, pouring him out a cup of tea.

“I went to see Will,” he hedged.

“Still swimming around the bottom of the bottle?”

Jack slammed the now-empty pie tin onto the table, making the tea cups and pot clatter. 

“Enough, Rosie! That’s enough!”

She flinched, but was not deterred.

“Why?” she challenged. “Because you said so? She was my goddaughter too, Jack. Not that you’ve ever noticed.”

Jack clenched his jaw, unwilling to have this argument. Rosie was less willing to let it lie.

“It’s not as if I was the one who dried her tears when her mother ran off,” Rosie spat, shaking her head, “or made her dinner when her aunt was working, or promised her father would be home soon. And all the while he—both of you—were off in Europe doing things you _refuse_ to tell me about, as if I’m not right beside you when you wake up screaming.”

“Rosie…”

He didn’t want an argument. He never did. But they came all the same, more and more often. He rubbed his temple.

“No, Jack. I’m not going to be quiet this time,” she said, her tone firm. “Scowl and shout all you like, but I am not done speaking. We were at a police function tonight, you know. I had to sit there and smile as people told me how fortunate I must feel, to be married to a man with such a bright future. One who is so dedicated to the job, who is clever and kind and respected, who shows so much empathy with victims," he voice wobbled, but she kept her chin up. "And yet you can’t even see that I’m hurting. Jack Robinson, there for everyone but the woman he married.”

Some part of him knew she was right, but he found himself turning it back on her instead of admitting it.

“And you, Rosie? While I was covered in mud and lice, when I was so damned cold I thought I’d never feel warm again, when all I could taste was death… what were you doing? Cleaning scraped knees? Rolling bandages?”

“I was trying not to fall apart!” she shouted, standing. “I was waiting every day for news. You promised me, Jack, you _promised_ you wouldn’t have to go, that it would be over before they’d deployed Australian troops. And then you went anyway, because your obligations to your ‘fellow man’ meant more to you than your obligations to me.”

“None of us knew what Europe would bring, Rosie.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “But knowing now, you’d still go.”

“What does it matter if I would?” Jack asked. “I can’t change the past.”

“I wasn’t _asking_ , Jack, because I know the answer. I’m telling you—you would enlist again tomorrow if you thought it was your duty. The same way you walked the picket lines, and the way you slip the odd bob to people instead of arresting them, and… I don’t even know what it is you do because you never _tell_ me. I get to hear it from your superiors and play along as if I know.”

“I’m sorry I can’t live up to your expectations,” Jack spat.

All the fight went out of her; her arms dropped to her sides and she met his gaze with near indifference.

“I don’t think you even know what my expectations are.”

“At least I can say that I have always been faithful,” Jack said, his voice flat. “Did you get your post today?”

Rosie paled, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. “What…”

“You filed a letter addressed to you with mine. ‘Dearest Rosie’ it began, and I went to replace it in the envelope. It was clearly intended for you, after all,” he said. “But part of it caught my eye. I wish it hadn’t. I wish I could go back to telling myself I was wrong. That you had never been so lonely that you’d sought comfort in another man’s arms. But I can’t, Rosie. And in some ways, I don’t think you want me to.”

Rosie raised her chin defiantly.

“I think it might be best if I go to stay with my sister for a few days,” she said.

“Yes,” Jack agreed, “that might be for the best.”

 

 

 

###  **January 1932**

Phryne swept into Jack’s house, adjusting her fur stole and patting his dog, a mutt named Phoebe, on the head as she made her way to his bedroom. He had only been back for a few days, and while she had tried to give him some space after his extended stay at Wardlow to recover from his injuries, they were already late for their reservation.

Jack’s home was an architectural manifestation of the man himself: simple and classic in its masculinity, filled with dark wood and leather that that was worn but beautifully maintained; scrupulously tidy, but brimming with books and papers and even a few plants along the window ledge that spoke of a home that was _lived_ in; and, despite the austere decor, there was a sense of warmth infusing the place. Yes, the home was very much like the occupant; Phryne supposed that was what happened when you lived in one place for nearly twenty years.

The door to the bedroom was open, and for a moment she stopped just to watch him—he was facing away from her, in the process of getting dressed, shrugging on a starched shirt. His trousers were already on, his dinner jacket laid out on the bed beside him. He was moving more slowly than he had been, and Phryne wondered how recovered he really was after the incident at Tullaree. She coughed softly.

“If you’re not up for dinner, Jack…”

“Miss Fisher,” he said dryly, not turning around. “Did you pick the lock?”

“Unfortunately, no. You left it open.”

He finished buttoning his shirt and looked over his shoulder to her.

“Your wrist?” she asked gently, crossing the room to stand before him.

“And the ribs,” he admitted. “I thought it was a good idea to reorganise the study this afternoon.”

Phryne raised a disapproving eyebrow and grabbed Jack’s bow tie from the side. He ducked his head so she could place it around his neck.

“It wasn’t my smartest decision,” he admitted.

“We can stay in.”

“No, I promised you dinner at the Windsor. I’ll survive.”

“Jack…”

“Phryne, you don’t need to coddle me.”

“I’m not coddling,” she objected, “but…” tie secured, she adjusted the collar of his shirt, “I’m far more worried about you than a hot meal.”

He gave her a tender smile, and she leant up to kiss his cheek.

“I promise I’m fine. Could you get my cuff links?” he asked, nodding towards a chest in the corner. “Top drawer.”

She stepped back, flicking her eyes down to take in his mostly-dressed state—he was delicious, and if he didn’t finish dressing and tame his hair soon, she’d cancel the dinner herself. She strode over to the chest, opening the drawer. There was a small box filled with tie pins and cuff links, and Phryne had selected a silver and sapphire set of the latter when something else caught her eye.

It was a ring, an unobtrusive design of gold and pearl. Victorian, probably, and very pretty in its simplicity. Her first thought was that he meant it for her, that he had directed her to the cuff links as a surprise. Which was ridiculous—he had no reason to believe she would arrive before he was dressed. And he wasn’t going to propose anyway. She thought. She hoped. There would, of course, be a logical reason. Perhaps it was Rosie’s old wedding ring. Which, on second thought, might actually be worse. It occurred to her that she could pretend she hadn’t seen it, just close the drawer and walk away.

“My cufflinks, Miss Fisher?”

No. No, honesty was more important. She sighed, bracing herself as she turned. There was a logical explanation.

“What is this?” Phryne asked, holding up the ring.

He looked up from the fastening on his trousers, blinking twice and taking a step closer for a better look.

“Oh, uh, my mother’s. I forgot I moved it there.”

He was actually blushing.

“Wedding ring?” prodded Phryne.

“Yes. Well, sort of. Her second one.”

“Your mother was married twice?” she asked.

“No. Uh,” he paused, slowly coming over to take the ring from her hand—it looked so small in his palm, delicate and easily broken. “My parents were living in Scotland when they got married, rather quickly. Mum’s family was well-off and did not approve of the match. A miner’s son with barely any education was not suitable for an upwardly mobile vicar’s daughter and all that. So mum said she was visiting a friend for a week and they nipped off to Gretna Green.”

Phryne laughed, the tension in her chest loosening. “I always imagined your parents were as upright as you are.”

“It gets better,” Jack smiled. “Mum’s wealthy and rather eccentric aunt knew in advance and supplied the wedding ring, which was apparently worth quite a bit. So they come back, her family basically disowns her, and mere weeks after the marriage a letter arrives from Uncle Ted.”

“He of the numismatic tendencies?”

Jack nodded. “My father’s uncle. He offered my father passage to Australia. I doubt he even knew my mother existed—the letter was sent before news of the marriage would have reached him. So my father dithered and fretted and finally promised my mother that he’d save up and send for her as soon as possible. It was the only way he could imagine ever being worthy of her.”

Phryne snorted. “I have found absolutely no correlation between wealth and worth.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “Either way, my mother didn’t say a word. She stood up, grabbed a hat—my father’s, not hers, and she always said she didn’t even notice in her rage—and walked out the door. Came back an hour later with a pile of notes, having hocked the ring, and told my father he could accept she was coming with him now or the marriage was over, but either way she never wanted to see that gaudy thing again.”

“No!”

“Absolutely true,” he swore, smiling. “So they both came over, lived with my Uncle Ted and Aunt Helen for a few years, and eventually moved to Melbourne and lived a life happily between their expectations.”

“And the ring?”

Jack sobered slightly. “It wasn’t always easy, especially in the first few years. When my father had the money, though, he bought my mother that ring. She pointed out that tears were not the most romantic of notions, and he told her that pearls were a reminder that beauty could come from the bad just as easily as the good. Though knowing my father, what he actually said was something like—” Jack took a breath and affected a heavy Scottish brogue, “Aye hen, ye ken pearls come from grit? I reckon we're both a little o’ that.' Shakespeare the man was not."

“It’s a lovely sentiment either way,” Phryne said, her smile slightly tremulous—she was not prone to sentimentality, but she found herself reaching out to touch the softly burnished gold.

“I always thought so,” Jack agreed. “Mum meant for it to go to Rosie when she passed, then any daughter we had, but by the time she was gone Rosie was staying with her sister and…” he shrugged. “I suppose I should do something with it eventually, but it’s been sitting in one drawer or another for years.”

Phryne laid her hand over his, the ring caught between them.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she replied softly. “We’re going to miss our reservation if we don’t head out soon.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes searching hers for… something. Whatever it was, he seemed to find it; he nodded and pulled his hand away to return the ring.

“It’s very pretty,” he said mildly, “but not quite your tastes, I think.”

“Probably not, Jack,” she agreed, but her eyes kept it in sight until the drawer was closed.


	2. Chapter One

###  **February 1932**

The mid-February sun was warm, and Jack regretted not closing the curtains properly the night before. They has been too busy undressing by the time they’d reached the bedroom, coming in from a dinner at Café Florentino to mark his forthcoming return to duty, and in the afterglow neither of them had considered the earliness of sunrise or the lack of household staff to attend to these small details.

I had been a perfectly reasonable oversight at the time, but Jack was lamenting it now. Phryne appeared to be completely impervious to the light, her limbs draped over him and her face buried in a pillow. Smiling softly, Jack traced the line of her spine with one careful fingertip.

Since the incident at Tullaree, they had rarely spent a night apart; first because Jack was recovering at Wardlow, but later because they’d seen no need. There’d been times Phryne had gone to some event that Jack was uninterested in or not well enough to attend, but usually she’d either asked him to stay at her home or she’d come to his bungalow when it was done. It was not a sustainable habit once he returned to work, though, and probably not something that suited either of them long term, but they’d carved out this final weekend to be entirely alone.

Reaching the base of her spine, he spread his hand to cover the small of her back; she sighed and moved a little closer. Phryne had proven to be surprisingly tactile, or perhaps the surprise was how much Jack enjoyed it; either way, it was a welcome development. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander.

The relationship they had uncovered was so very different than what Jack had thought he’d wanted; there had been no promises of forever, or even next week. There had been no promises of monogamy, at Jack’s insistence—he could not bear the thought that she might ever feel the need to deny herself, seeing what such a demand had done to her in England. What they had instead, though… it was real. Strong. Silly in some ways, serious in others. It was, in this moment and the next, exactly what they both wanted.

The quiet of his early morning contemplations was broken by a ringing telephone. Jack pushed the covers off and slipped from beneath Phryne’s sprawling body, smiling when she mumbled a sleepy protest.

“‘S early,” she said.

“Telephone.”

“Leave it,” she ordered, voice muffled by the pillow her face was buried in. “It’s our weekend and I don’t intend to move until Monday.”

“I have to answer it. It could be important.”

She lifted her head and glared, the fierceness rather ruined by her sleep-rumpled hair.

“What could possibly be that important?” she asked.

“It could be the station.”

“You’re still on medical leave.”

“It could be a friend.”

“It’s seven am.”

“It could be your household.”

“Again, it’s seven in the morning.”

Jack chuckled and leant over the bed, pressing a kiss to her temple. “The telephone is still ringing,” he said. “It’s important.”

She huffed and flopped back into the pillow, waving him away dramatically.

“I see where your priorities lie.”

“Silencing that infernal noise so I can come back to bed while the blankets are still warm?” he asked, pulling on a pair of pyjama bottoms and heading for the door.

She groaned in response, and Jack smiled as he made his way down his hallway. His injuries were almost completely healed—his cracked ribs would occasionally twinge if he attempted anything too strenuous and his writing was going to be worse until the wrist regained strength, but considering how easily the outcome could have been lethal, it was a price he paid willingly. Stepping over the dog, who managed an apathetic look towards the ringing telephone but nothing else, he picked up the receiver.

“Jack Robinson,” he said.

There was the sound of sobbing, then a loud sniff.

“Jack! Oh, thank heavens!” said Rosie. “I need your help!”

———

Phryne was almost asleep again when Jack returned—and she wondered whether he realised how rarely she indulged in the intimacy of that half-awake stage with lovers—but she shifted the covers back when she heard him enter the room. He sat on the edge of the bed instead and kissed her shoulder.

“I have to go.”

She rolled over and sat up.

“Why?”

“Uhh,” he said evasively. “That was Rosie on the telephone.”

Phryne wished she could say that she liked Jack’s ex-wife, but their few meetings had been strained on both sides.

“What did she want?” Phryne asked.

“She needs a favour,” he said. “You can stay here and sleep, if you like. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Folding her arms beneath her breasts, Phryne raised an eyebrow.

“You’re abandoning me to do your ex-wife a favour?” she asked incredulously.

He scrubbed at his face.

“There’s a missing woman. A friend of hers.”

“There are other police officers, Jack.”

It was an argument she knew was useless before she made it; he’d no more leave it than she herself would. She pushed the blankets back to climb out of bed.

“Phryne…”

“Who is it?” she asked. “And do you want to shower before or after me?”

He shook his head in resignation. “You go first.”

“And the woman?” she asked, digging through her overnight bag for a suitable outfit.

“Eleanor Matheson.”

“As in Matheson’s Cannery?”

“I… didn’t think to ask,” he said. “Look, Phryne, you don’t have to come. Will’s on the case—”

“Wait, Will?” she asked; as far as she knew, a missing person did not fall under the purview of Will’s department. The man was in charge of the Terrible Tenners—the Police Special Powers Unit—which mostly ran large scale operations. “Isn’t that odd?”

“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” he said. “I didn’t ask. Rosie… doesn’t get along with him.”

Well, that was an interesting piece of information to examine at another time.

“So you’re rushing to the aid of your former wife first thing Saturday morning, without asking any of the relevant questions? Even though your best friend—who is a perfectly competent police officer in his own right—is on the case?”

“Why does this bother you so much?”

“No reason,” Phryne said, attempting to sound flippant as she grabbed her chosen outfit and headed towards Jack’s bathroom. “I just think it’s a peculiar choice.”

“I’ll be in and out. I’ll talk to Will, reassure Rosie that he’s doing his job, and I can be back before lunch.”

“That’s a far cry from not knowing when you’ll be back, Jack,” she said pointedly, stopping at the door. “And if you think I believe you’d not investigate a missing woman… give me some credit.”

Before he could respond, she left the room. Once in the bathroom, she turned the shower on to heat the water—she was very thankful that Jack’s one indulgence in his living arrangements had been converting a spare bedroom to an indoor bathroom with a hot water heater, shower, and tub—and selected a towel.

Stepping beneath the shower head, she quickly washed her hair and body. The name of the missing woman was vaguely familiar, but Phryne couldn’t put a face to it. Still, she could go and offer her services; one of the rules she and Jack had established was to not intrude on the other’s cases without reason, but really neither of them could rightly claim this case. And damned if she was going to give up her entire weekend over it. Shutting off the water, she stepped out of the shower and realised that Jack had come in, pyjama trousers low on his hips, and was holding out a towel for her.

She smiled at the sweetness of the gesture, stepping closer to take the towel from his hands.

“Thank you,” she said, looking up to him through lowered lashes.

“I’ve put the kettle on,” Jack said, the twitch of his lips the only indication he’d noticed her flirtations.

“Toast for breakfast?” she asked. The words came so easily, a familiarity behind them she did not care to examine, and she took his head tilt as agreement. “I’ll go put that on then, before I get dressed.”

He kissed her cheek and squeezed her elbow, stepping past her to reach the shower. A niggle unease hit her. This was fine, of course. They were fine. She just hadn’t realised how thin the line between consideration and domestication could be, and she had no intention of embracing the latter. Which was a ridiculous thing to think about over toast, so she secured a second towel around her head and headed towards the kitchen. Clearly this situation called for coffee.

———

As the car arrived at the gates to the Matheson estate, Jack stole another glance at Phryne. She seemed subdued, and he doubted the relatively early hour was the only reason for it. He hadn’t had a choice though; Rosie had been nearly hysterical as she had explained that Eleanor hadn’t gone home the night before, insistent that her friend would never leave her young son behind and that something awful must have happened. And when he’d heard that Will was investigating, he knew the only way to appease her was to intervene. His best friend and ex-wife had been quite close at one point, but after, well, everything that had happened, they could barely tolerate being in the same room. Not that there had been that many opportunities.

“I wish I’d thought to telephone Aunt P before we left,” Phryne said, peering up at the house, a red brick mansion in one of the best areas of Melbourne. “No doubt she has all the gossip about the family and would have saved us a great deal of hassle.”

“I’m not taking this case,” protested Jack. “I’m just—”

“Enough, Jack. Of course you’re going to investigate. Your nobility is very endearing, but the timing could be better.”

Her smirk was quick and subtle, a mere sideways quirk of her red lips that made Jack love her even more. Maddening, impossible woman. He parked the motorcar and saw Rosie coming from the front door of the home.

“I should have brought the Hispano,” Phryne muttered as he opened the door.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Embarrassed to be caught fraternising with a police officer, Miss Fisher?”

“Not at all, Jack. Merely wondering how to make my escape without a vehicle of my own.”

“I suspect you’ll manage just fine.”

“I suspect I will,” she replied. “I hope this doesn’t give the family the wrong impression though.”

Before Jack could question what she meant by that, Rosie had arrived.

“Oh Jack, thank goodness you’re here!” she exclaimed, then glanced to the passenger seat. “And your Miss Fisher. How… lovely.”

Jack opened his mouth—to explain, or perhaps to reprimand—but Phryne cut him off, smiling with a warmth he knew was false even if Rosie did not.

“Hello, Miss Sanderson,” she said. “I presume Mrs. Matheson hasn’t yet returned?”

“She has not,” Rosie confirmed with a sniff that was no doubt meant to be disapproving, but was in fact an attempt to hide tears. Jack didn’t like to think how often he had heard that sound, and he reached out to touch her arm in comfort.

“Rosie—”

“It’s entirely out of character,” Rosie continued, her voice steadier. “Ron is beside himself, and poor Ronnie… well, of course they haven’t told him yet. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come!”

“If you could take us through to the family? ”Jack asked, stepping out of the car.

Rosie nodded and gestured him inside, in such a rush that she did not wait for Phryne to join them; Phryne caught up to them at the staircase leading to the front door of the Mathesons’ home, giving Jack a pointed look when she did so. He wondered whether he should apologise, but dismissed the idea just as quickly—there was a certain sort of… dependence, perhaps, that the idea implied, and she’d been quite clear in her desire to handle it herself.

The door opened to reveal Will, who cast the briefest scowl at Rosie before focusing on Jack.

“Jackie,” he boomed. “And Phryne! How are you, plum butter?”

How and why Will had taken to calling her plum butter—a term of endearment that had come from Will’s mother—had escaped Jack, but it seemed to amuse them both immensely and he didn’t question it.

“I’ve had better mornings,” Phryne replied, her deliberate glance at Jack making Will chuckle. “I hear we have a missing woman?”

“We, is it?”

Phryne smiled at Will, the smile that Jack knew meant she was going to charm the trousers right off the recipient and do what she wanted regardless of whether or not it worked; unfortunately for Will, he hadn’t had nearly enough opportunities to become immune to it. Will raised a hand in happy concession.

“I can’t keep a private detective off the case if the family wants to hire one,” he said, “and who she confers with is likely none of my business. Though I was under the impression you were still on medical leave, Jack. I seem to recall _something_ about broken ribs and a head injury.”

“I’m not taking this case,” Jack protested, aware it sounded weak even to him.

Phryne stepped forward, taking Will’s arm and smiling again, the incorrigible flirt that she was. She led him back into the house, and Jack turned to Rosie; his former wife was watching the exchange, her expression blank.

“Shall we?”Jack asked, inclining his head towards the door Will and Phryne had just gone through.

“Yes,” Rosie said, taking a deep breath and smoothing her skirts, “I suppose we ought to.”

———

As she took his arm, Phryne looked up at Will, who was several inches taller than Jack and quite a bit broader; with his pink complexion and small, upturned nose, she’d never quite forgotten her first impression that the man bore a passing resemblance to a pig. A few months of knowing him had made her exceptionally fond of him all the same—he was as openly expressive as Jack was reserved, good-natured and blunt, and a loyal friend. She liked him immensely, and there was a small part of her that was pleased she would have a chance to work with him in a professional capacity.

“The missing woman?” she asked as they stepped into the cool dark foyer of the Matheson mansion.

“Eleanor Matheson,” Will said. “Sole heiress to the Nicholson shipping fortune after her brother passed away in a motor vehicle accident seven years ago, not that she was in need of the money—her husband is Ron Matheson, of Matheson’s Cannery.”

“I have found that women with a source of income of their own are generally far happier, and definitely more secure,” Phryne said, glancing around to get a first impression of the home as they walked. It rather reminded her of her father’s decorative tendencies, an overcompensating ornateness oozing from everything; money could not buy good taste.

“Very true. And while I have yet to make a direct comparison of finances, I suspect the Nicholson fortune might outstrip the cannery.”

“And she’s missing.”

“Yes. She went to a music appreciation society yesterday evening, as she does every Friday, and the rest of the family retired early. When they woke at six this morning they realised that she hadn’t returned.”

“And the rest of the family is…”

“A husband and a four-year-old son,” Will said. “House staff is a butler, a housekeeper—who is the one who noticed she was missing first—and a nanny. I get the impression that the nanny is quite close to the family.”

“To the family, or to Mr. Matheson?” Phryne asked deliberately, and Will smiled.

“Which do you think, Phryne?”

“Right.”

They had arrived at the doorway to a parlour, a hideous riot of purple and gold decor, and Phryne could see Mr. Matheson—she recognised him from one of the fundraisers her aunt had thrown a few weeks before, though she would not have been able to name him—as well as a child and a young woman she presumed to be the nanny seated on a chaise. There was a well-dressed man standing near the mantelpiece—not the butler, based on his suit, but she did not know him. Perhaps one of Will’s men, then. Dropping Will’s arm, she stepped into the room.

“Mr. Matheson,” she said warmly, “Miss Phryne Fisher. I believe we met—”

“At Prudence Stanley’s gala for the hospital board,” Mr. Matheson finished, looking up. “Did I forget a meeting? I’m sorry, I’m afraid we’ve had a family emergency.”

“Actually, Mr. Matheson, that’s why I’m here,” said Phryne, extracting a card from her handbag and grateful she had brought that particular one to Jack’s house the night before. “I’m a private detective and I heard that Mrs. Matheson hadn’t returned last night.”

“How?” Mr. Matheson asked, seemingly in a daze.

“I’m afraid that’s my fault, Ron,” Rosie said from behind Phryne; the hairs at the nape of Phryne’s neck stood on end at the sound. “I telephoned a friend to ask a favour, and Miss Fisher… also offered her services.”

Rosie’s tone was completely friendly, but Phryne had doubts about her sincerity. She turned to see that Rosie and Jack had both just entered the room, and she was just in time to register the split second of shock on Jack’s face. Following his line of sight, Phryne found herself looking at the man by the mantel once more; he was good-looking, with dark hair and kind eyes. Eyes that were only for Rosie, it seemed; he looked at her with a soft smile as she moved towards him, coming to take his arm.

“David,” Jack said coolly, tilting his head towards the man. “I wasn’t aware you were back in Melbourne.”

“Ah, yes,” said David. “I moved back two weeks ago.”

Rosie sniffed. “Which you would know, Jack, if you hadn’t cancelled our last two dinners.”

Will, who had until this point stood just inside the door, seemed to bite back a caustic comment; it occurred to Phryne that she’d never seen him in anything less than good spirits, and wondered what she was missing and whether it had anything to do with their missing woman. She did _not_ like being left in the dark, but it was hardly time to demand answers. She turned her attentions back to Ron Matheson.

“Miss Sanderson contacted Inspector Robinson,” she explained, gesturing towards Jack. “The inspector and I have worked together quite closely in the past, with much success. And with your connection to my Aunt Prudence, I thought I would come and offer my services as well. It’s truly awful news.”

Mr. Matheson blinked, trying to process this information.

“Rosie?” he finally asked.

Rosie stepped away from David, coming to crouch before Mr. Matheson and lay her hands over his.

“Ron, Jack is a very good police officer.”

“Tim said that Inspector Wildt…” Mr. Matheson said weakly, looking around the room.

Ahh, that explained why Will was investigating; the commissioner had called him in. There was a certain amount of hypocrisy in that; Tim Wilkinson had cracked down on police-issued favours in an effort to clean out force corruption, but saw no problems with arranging it himself. Still, everyone had their blind spots, and he _was_ fond of Jack, which would make the argument Jack should join the investigation easier to make.

Will stepped forward.

“Jack Robinson is a good friend of mine,” he said, “and if he was not off on medical leave, I would have called him _and_ Miss Fisher in myself.”

“Medical leave?” Matheson asked.

“He had a disagreement with a set of stairs,” said Phryne dryly, trying not to dwell on the terror of that night.

“And I’m perfectly fit,” Jack added; Phryne was exceptionally proud of herself for not responding to _that_ comment.

Still dazed, Matheson just nodded.

“Very well,” he said.”I can’t see how more policemen could hurt.”


	3. Chapter Two

Taking a seat in the overly opulent parlour, Jack attempted to keep his focus on the case and not on the romantic entanglements of his former wife. It was neither the time nor the place, and he suspected if he addressed it at all the entire thing would explode spectacularly. He took stock of the occupants of the room instead: Phryne and Will both stood beside Jack’s chair, watching Mr. Matheson. The young woman and the child—Matheson’s son and a nanny, Jack presumed, though their fine features and reddish blonde hair made them passingly similar in appearance—had moved to a far corner to read, the topic of conversation no doubt distressing to a child. Rosie had rejoined David by the mantelpiece, and Jack studiously ignored the way his former colleague held her arm in a manner that was both comforting and possessive. 

Jack turned his attention to the final person in the room: Ron Matheson, the missing woman’s husband. The blonde man sat on the edge of the chaise, hands fidgeting, and appeared too stunned by events to really process them. He wore a heavy robe over his pyjamas despite the season, and he hadn’t yet shaved. Jack took out his notebook.

“Mr. Matheson, I’m sure you’ve gone over all of this with Inspector Wildt, but if you could talk Miss Fisher and myself through the events of this morning…”

The man startled, his eyes focusing on Jack properly for the first time. His eyes were a pale, watery grey, and utterly lost.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Eleanor went to her music appreciation society last night, as she always did on Friday evenings if we didn’t have prior commitments.” 

Jack nodded. “And what time was this?”

“I believe she left around seven,” Matheson said, then paused. “Or perhaps earlier? Her motorcar was in need of a mechanic and she took the tram. Our butler, Bertram, would know better than I would, I’m afraid. I was going over some paperwork for the factory all afternoon and well into evening. I even took my supper in the office.”

“And what time did she usually return?”

“Ten or so, depending on how long the conversation lasted. But I had a terrible headache and retired by half-nine, and we have separate bedrooms.”

Jack noted that quickly—he’d need to confirm it with the staff. “And the staff?”

“Bertram and Mrs. Richards retire to the servants’ wing after dinner if we have no need for them, and Amelia” —he nodded to the young woman who was seated with the Matheson child— “went to bed at the same time as Ronnie did. Another day we might have…” he trailed off, fidgeting again. “I’m sorry, this is quite distressing.”

“Take your time,” Jack urged. “When did you notice she had failed to come home?”

“Mrs. Richards went to wake her at six and found her bed had not been slept in. She then came to my room, and when Eleanor was not there either we searched the house.”

“And how long did that take?” Phryne asked.

Matheson thought for a moment. “Twenty minutes, perhaps? There was no sign she’d returned home though, so we telephoned Rosie.”

Jack glanced towards his former wife; she was leaning against David, David’s hand stroking her back, as she watched Matheson give his statement.

“Are Eleanor and Rosie close friends, then?” asked Phryne, not sparing the woman a glance.

“They’ve known each other since they were at school,” Matheson replied. “If Eleanor had chosen not to return home for some reason—she had a terrible habit of leaving the house without enough money for a taxi, and if she missed the last tram Rosie’s home would be closer—she would go to Rosie.”

“I hadn’t heard from Eleanor,” Rosie interjected, “and I told Ron to telephone the police and I would be over directly.”

Phryne opened her mouth, and Jack suspected she was about to ask how David’s presence had come about and shook his head slightly. She glowered at him, but remained silent.

“Yes,” said Matheson. “And then I telephoned Tim—we golf together—and he sent Inspector Wildt over.”

“Is there any reason you could think of why Eleanor would not return?” Jack asked.

“As I said, she has a habit of not bringing enough money with her, but she would have gone to Rosie’s or telephoned.”

“And any… _personal_ reasons?” Jack pressed, dropping his voice.

“My wife was perfectly happy, if that’s what you’re implying,” Matheson said defensively. “I’ve already told Wildt that.”

“Of course,” Phryne said, voice reassuring. “But the police do need to ask, Mr. Matheson. I’m sure Miss Sanderson would confirm as much, if it would set your mind at ease.”

Rosie jumped at the sound of her name, but donned a cool composure.

“Miss Fisher is right, Ron. It is an unfortunate question, but any police officer would ask it,” Rosie assured him.

Matheson nodded in understanding, and Jack shifted in his seat slightly.

“She’s been happy, you said, but have there been any changes to her routine? Has she mentioned letters or telephone calls, someone who made her uncomfortable perhaps?”

“No, nothing.”

“And are there other friends she might have contacted?”

“Not before Rosie,” Matheson said confidently.

“If we could have a look at her address book all the same,” Phryne said. “It’s best to be thorough. I’m sure Inspector Wildt will get a constable on that so we can focus on other matters.”

“Of course. Bertram will fetch it for you,” Matheson said, ringing a bell.

A moment later a tall, thin man joined them. His hollow cheeks gave him an unwelcoming appearance, and his voice was thin as he promised to return with Mrs. Matheson’s address book.

“Perhaps I could come with you?” Phryne asked, standing up. No doubt looking for an opportunity to nose around Eleanor’s personal effects.

“That won’t be necessary, miss,” said Bertram.

“I insist,” replied Phryne in a tone that meant she would not be deterred.

She was halfway to the parlour door when a woman—Mrs. Richards the housekeeper, Jack presumed, based on her dress—entered, clutching an envelope.

“This letter has just arrived,” she said.

Jack stood to take it, but Phryne was closest. Donning a glove before taking the envelope, she examined it carefully and then opened the flap with her dagger. She took out the paper within, worrying her lip as she read. Then she looked up, eyes grim.

“It’s a ransom note,” she said.

The only sound in the room was a ragged gasp; Jack turned to see that Rosie had paled, her hand to her mouth, and she hurried from the room. David followed, tossing Jack a remorseful look as he passed; Jack wasn’t particularly interested in the man’s feelings of guilt.

Will, who was already standing, crossed the room to Phryne’s side to examine the note himself; Jack took the opportunity to survey the rest of the company. The child and the nanny were still reading in the corner, the nanny’s attentions at least partially on the letter’s arrival; Matheson leaned forward further in his seat, eyes on Phryne and Will; the butler, Bertram, stood near the door, his composure shaken; and the housekeeper stayed exactly where she had been when the note was revealed. Everyone seemed in a state of shock.

“I think…” Will paused, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Perhaps the boy might be better retiring to the nursery. We’ll need to speak with you again later, Amelia, but for now that would be most helpful.”

The young woman stood, looking to Matheson for permission before leading the boy from the room. When they were gone, Will held up the note.

“They are demanding—”

“I can pay it.”

“Five thousand pounds,” Will finished.

“I can pay it,” Matheson repeated. “Give me a hour, I’ll get the banker out of bed myself.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Matheson. They are not requesting the ransom until tomorrow, and say that they will contact the house to arrange the drop-off. The banker’s usual hours will suffice,” said Phryne. “Do you know your wife’s favourite flower?”

“Dahlias,” Matheson replied without hesitation. 

“Is that common knowledge?” Will asked. “Is there any special significance to it?”

Matheson looked confused, and Jack wasn’t feeling any more knowledgeable.

“Uh… not that I know of. Why?”

“The letter offered proof they have Eleanor,” Phryne said, voice gentle. “They mentioned her love of dahlias, and we needed to confirm it without influencing your response.”

“Let me see it,” Matheson demanded, standing up.

“We need to test it for fingerprints first,” Will said. “Jack? I left the fingerprint dust in the car, if you could…?”

Jack stood, pulling on a pair of gloves to take the envelope and note from Will and exchanging a look with Phryne; the message had been typed, not handwritten, the words centred neatly in the middle of the page.

_Mr. Matheson,_

_Your dear wife, who loves dahlias above all flowers, is our guest. If you wish for her release, you will gather five thousend pounds in nonsequential notes and await further instructions tomorrow._

_Friends_

Jack read the note twice—he had not dealt with many kidnappings, and even fewer kidnappings for ransom, but the note was peculiar. Succinct, almost too much so, and the vocabulary made the misspelling of thousand feel like deliberate misdirection. There was no hint of motive for targeting the Mathesons in particular. He glanced up, hoping to catch Phryne’s eye and see if she felt the same, and realised she was no longer in the room. Before he could ask where she had gone—to investigate the house, he presumed—Will re-entered the parlour, carrying a case containing the fingerprint powders.

“Let’s see if we can find anything,” he said.

———

Slipping past the butler and out of the parlour, Phryne glanced around the corridor. She would need to look around the house, especially the places Eleanor Matheson spent her time, but she also wanted to speak with Rosie—she suspected the feelings from Mrs. Matheson’s best friend would be very different without Mr. Matheson around. It often was, even in the strongest of relationships. And if the conversation happened to satisfy her curiosity about this mysterious David, well, all the better. Hearing a noise to the left, Phryne headed that direction; the first room she came across was a library, and David was just leaving.

“Is Miss Sanderson well?” Phryne asked quietly, motioning towards the library with a tilt of her head.

“She’s upset.”

“Understandable,” she replied, holding out her hand to shake. “Miss Phryne Fisher.”

“Yes, I know who you are,” he replied somewhat curtly, but shook her hand nonetheless.

Phryne smiled, as much to hide her surprise as from any real desire to.

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same,” she said.

“David Thornton.”

The name wasn’t familiar, and she didn’t recognise him—with his broad shoulders and dark eyes, she was quite certain she would have remembered him if they’d met before. Rosie had excellent taste in men.

“And you’re a friend of Rosie’s?”

“As much a friend as you are to Jack, I imagine.”

“A very good friend, then,” Phryne said, ignoring the implied barb. “If you’ll excuse me, I really must speak with Miss Sanderson.”

Phryne moved towards the door, and David caught her arm—gently, but still meant as a restraint.

“She doesn’t know anything.”

Phryne raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at his hand before meeting his eyes again. “Are you an expert, then?”

He released her arm.

“I’m a police officer.”

Which was interesting, and would explain how Will and Jack both knew him, but she doubted he was there in an official capacity.

“You are also close to Miss Sanderson,” Phryne pointed out. “There may be questions you did not think to ask, given your connection.”

His dark eyes grew darker as he searched her face.

“I’m not sure I like what you’re implying, Miss Fisher,” he said, voice pitched low.

“I’m not particularly interested in your opinions of my actions. I was asked to investigate—”

“Jack was asked to investigate,” David cut in. “You simply inserted yourself into the matter.”

“I’m not here to apologise for that. My record speaks for itself perfectly well. You’re welcome to speak with Commissioner Wilkinson if you have concerns.”

“I will.”

“Excellent,” Phryne said curtly, pushing past him. She had no time for his attempts at censure. “Tell him that Aunt Prudence expects him for lunch a week Saturday.” 

Entering the library, she saw Rosie standing by the fireplace; the woman hastily wiped away her tears and shoved her handkerchief into her handbag.

“Miss Fisher,” she said coolly, drawing herself to her full height and touching her hair as if to make sure it was perfectly in place.

It was a defensive action, and Phryne supposed she could understand the impulse—it was a horrible situation for Rosie, made worse by some obvious history between the investigators and her source of support. Phryne’s presence was no doubt the last straw, and it was far easier to lash out at someone like Phryne than to attempt to untangle the complications and remain composed. Unfair, yes, but not completely unexpected; Phryne found it did not improve her opinion of Jack’s ex-wife, but it did not worsen it either. 

“I think, perhaps, we should set aside our animosity for the moment?” Phryne suggested. “At least until Eleanor is found?”

“Yes, of course,” Rosie said, but could not seem to stop herself from adding, “Jack must have driven very quickly, to have picked you up in St. Kilda before coming.”

“He must have been very concerned,” Phryne agreed; the lie sat poorly on her shoulders, but it seemed preferable to the alternative. “When was the last time you spoke with Eleanor?”

“Wednesday,” Rosie said. “I often go to the music society myself, but I had… other plans, this week.”

“With David?”

Rosie’s nostrils flared. “My personal life is none of your concern, Miss Fisher.”

It took all of Phryne’s self-restraint not to point out that it was a courtesy Rosie was clearly uninterested in extending to her, and kept her attentions on the missing woman.

“Of course. I’m simply trying to piece together any hints that might help us find her.”

“I saw her for lunch on Wednesday, and we were supposed to take Ronnie to the zoo this afternoon. Eleanor is utterly devoted to that boy.”

“How did she seem at lunch?” Phryne asked, idly browsing the shelves as she spoke; she hoped it would set Rosie at ease, at least somewhat.

“Her usual self, I believe. I’m afraid I was running late and had to leave early—Father was recently quite ill and it was my turn to visit him—so I may have been less attentive than usual,” said Rosie, looking stricken. “Do you think I missed something?”

“It’s unlikely. If this is an abduction—”

“You doubt it?” Rosie asked, clearly surprised.

“Abductions for ransom are very rare.”

“Elle would never leave Ronnie behind,” Rosie asserted, shaking her head. Which was the second time she had mentioned the victim’s devotion to her child, and yet made no comment about the state of the marriage.

Phryne did not have the heart to tell Rosie that she was more concerned about the possibility of murder.

“Either way, I am sure if Mrs. Matheson had reason to be concerned she would have raised it,” Phryne said sincerely. “This is in no way on your shoulders, Miss Sanderson.”

“I don’t find that reassuring, all the same.”

Phryne gave Rosie a small smile.

“And how was Eleanor’s relationship with Mr. Matheson?”

“You heard him,” Rosie said, a hint of bitterness in her tone. “They’re happy.”

“I’ve found that people who feel the need to assert their relationship is happy very rarely are,” Phryne observed. “In your opinion, then, how was their relationship?”

“Elle never complained,” Rosie said evasively, then steeled her voice. “I really don’t see how this is going to help us find her. There’s a ransom note, for heaven's sake! Shouldn’t you be focusing on that instead of interrogating me about her personal life?”

“Miss Sanderson, I’m sorry. But her personal life might tell us who took her or why, and if we don’t investigate that now in favour of faceless abductors driven solely by greed, it may be too late.”

“But Ron will pay the ransom!” Rosie cried. “Won’t he?”

“He’ll be contacting his banker soon,” Phryne said, “but things can go wrong. Our best course of action is to keep investigating, and hopefully have her home before the ransom should ever be paid. Is there anything, anything no matter how small, that may be of use to us?”

Rosie hesitated, thinking.

“A few weeks ago, she mentioned they had a letter from a former employee of the cannery, accusing them of negligence. Their solicitor had looked into it and dismissed the claim quite quickly. Possibly the same day? I know she was not concerned in the slightest, and I hadn’t heard anything since. I’m sure the only reason she mentioned it at all is that the solicitor telephoned while we were having tea.”

“Thank you,” Phryne said sincerely, filing that information away to investigate further. “If there is anything else, something you may not want Jack or Will to know or to be part of the… _official_ investigation, please telephone me.” Rosie had been to Wardlow in the past, but Phryne still handed her a calling card with the address and telephone number. “My staff are very discreet, and I will only bring these things to the attentions of the police if I believe it is in Mrs. Matheson’s best interests.”

Rosie sniffed, doubtful, but placed the card in her handbag.

“Thank you, Miss Fisher,” she said stiffly. “I think, perhaps, that I should rejoin Ron in the parlour. He’ll need support, I imagine.”

“Please, don’t let me keep you,” Phryne said. “They should be done with the note by now; they’ll likely send it by constable to the police laboratory for analysis. I doubt they’ll get much from it, but we can hope.”

“Yes,” said Rosie absently. “Yes, I suppose that is all we can do.”

Which, in Phryne’s opinion, was a terribly defeatist attitude when many other things could be done, but she was aware that she was being at least slightly unfair to Rosie.

“There is one other matter you could assist me with,” Phryne said, glancing around the room. “Where is Mrs. Matheson’s bedroom?”

Rosie gave her directions, and Phryne left the library and headed up the stairs.


	4. Chapter Three

The ransom letter turned up no fingerprints, not even partials. The envelope itself only had the housekeeper’s prints—she said it had appeared with the morning paper, at least as far as she could tell—and there were no other details that could be discerned from it. Placing it in an evidence envelope and sending it off with a freshly-arrived constable for further testing, Jack and Will decided to investigate the house. Rosie returned at just that moment; her expression was still, but Jack knew enough to recognise that she was somewhat rattled. Leaving her to sit with Mr. Matheson, Jack and Will headed up the stairs.

“Do you know the victim?” Will asked as they climbed; it took Jack a moment to realise why he was asking.

“No. You know that Rosie’s school friends never…” Jack had never really gotten along with them, certain they judged him for being no more than a constable with lofty ideas. Not that he had put much effort into befriending them, even before the war—he’d been young and arrogant enough to think it unnecessary. “I’m sure I must have met her once or twice, but I wouldn’t recognise her. Has the husband supplied a photograph yet?”

Will nodded, pausing at the top of the stairs to pull a photograph from his notebook. Eleanor Matheson had a friendly face, with bright green eyes and a liberal smattering of freckles across her nose. Her strawberry blonde hair was cut into a finger-waved bob, her clothes—Jack guessed, based almost entirely on Phryne’s wardrobe choices—classic without being either outdated or on the cutting edge of fashion.

“No, I don’t recognise her. Can we get this in the papers?”

Will nodded. “I’ve put in a telephone call to _The Argus_ already. They are ready to print as soon as we give the word, but we might want to hold off given the ransom demands.”

“And the radio?” Jack asked; it was a new idea, but it would get the information out faster than newspaper.

“I talked to the bloke running 3JH nowadays. He says he can run a description during the hourly news update and tell anyone with information to contact the police, which is another avenue to consider. We’d probably have half of Melbourne contacting us _and_ tip off the abductors, so it’s not ideal, but the longer we wait the more unreliable potential witnesses are going to be.”

Jack nodded, pausing outside the first door on this floor of the house. “This is your investigation. What do you want to do?”

“See what else we can turn up before making that call,” Will decided.

“You’re not convinced by the ransom demand.”

“Are you?”

Jack shook his head slightly. “I’m not suspicious enough to declare it falsified, but…”

“Let’s see what we can find in the bedroom,” Will said, opening the door.

What they found was Phryne, who had clearly been having a sneaky look around.

“Hello Jack! Will!” she said cheerfully, standing in the middle of the room. “I was just coming to look for you.”

“Miss Fisher,” Jack said. “I should have suspected you’d be here already.”

She didn't deign that with a response, waving away the remark with the motion of her hand.

“Any more from the letter?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Oh, I know that voice,” she said, “and there’s something you aren’t saying.”

In Jack’s peripheral vision, he saw Will shake his head.

“I did warn you,” Jack muttered to his friend.

“We are keeping our enquiries open to all possibilities,” Will said with practiced smoothness; he'd always been for mroe adept at playing this game. Unfortunately for him, he had never played it against Phryne Fisher.

“You may as well tell me now, Will. Jack’s never been able to keep me out, and I highly doubt you’ll have any more success.”

“Confident, aren’t we?”

Phryne gave a slight smile at that.

“Very much. And we are on the same team, with a woman’s life potentially at stake. Is it about the convenient neatness of the letter?”

Will looked to Jack, eyebrows raised, and Jack shrugged.

“She read it,” he explained. “I can’t see why she wouldn’t draw the same conclusions.”

“Thank you, Jack,” she said, voice crisp. “And lending support to my suspicions—” she nodded towards the bed “—either the housekeeper has gotten very sloppy, which is unlikely given the fact that even in the upheaval of Eleanor’s absence every other bed is made with near military precision, or someone else made that bed.”

Jack stepped closer; the bed was made, but the blankets were not completely smoothed and one corner was caught beneath itself.

“Perhaps Eleanor made it herself yesterday? An afternoon nap?” he reasoned, knowing she was likely right but considering all possibilities.

Phryne looked at him, unamused.

“Would Dot or Mr. Butler leave a bed like this? Even after an ‘afternoon nap’?”

To his consternation, Jack flushed; it was one thing to banter and flirt and imply, but quite another for Phryne to outright _state_ their involvement and his intimate knowledge of her staff’s habits.

“I meant that you know their attention to detail, darling,” she continued, smirking, “but I’m pleased to see where your mind went. The point is, every detail in this house is meant to display wealth, status, control. A housekeeper leaving such sloppy work would have been let go years ago, probably without even a reference.”

She was not a fan of Mr. Matheson, then.

“You think she came home?” Will asked.

“It’s certainly possible. We’ll need to speak with the other members of the music society before we can really draw any conclusions. Jack and I can do that while you stay here, Will, in case our abductors attempt further contact, and you can start formal interviews with the family.”

Will turned to Jack, somewhat stunned.

“Is she always this commanding?”

“Generally.”

Jack could see Phryne bristle, but Will’s next words put her at ease.

“You lucky bastard.”

———

Heading down the steps and towards the motorcar, Phryne looked towards Jack.

“Your former wife—”`

“Phryne, leave it please,” Jack requested, opening the motorcar door.

Phryne huffed as she slid into the seat. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I could make a reasonable guess. No good sentence has ever started with ‘Your former wife’, Miss Fisher.”

His unamused look as he took the driver’s seat and shifted the car into gear made her change tactic.

“I was simply going to say that she doesn’t believe that Eleanor Matheson would leave her child behind,” Phryne lied; she had intended to tell him that, but now they had left the Matheson home she was far more interested in the curious by-play between the investigators.

“You spoke with her?”

“I had questions.”

“Did you get answers?” Jack asked, turning off the long drive onto the road.

“Some,” Phryne said, evasive. “I don’t think she approved of Ron Matheson, for all the support she was offering him. And we’ll need to speak with the cannery’s solicitor—there were accusations of negligence.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that I can share with you.”

Jack sighed. “A woman’s life could be at stake—”

“I know that, Jack. I’m quite hurt that you think I don’t,” she said sharply. “Do you _really_ think I wouldn’t share information that could help?”

“No, but you’re the one who said you couldn’t tell me things," he said, already exasperated. "What was I supposed to conclude?”

“It wasn’t about that,” Phryne said, studying him: his lips were pressed tightly together, his hands on the wheel tensed.

“Ahh, so we’re back at no good sentence territory.”

“Rosie and David—”

“Are not up for discussion. Leave it, please.”

“I didn’t think it was _possible_ for Will to dislike someone.”

“Well, clearly it is,” Jack said curtly. “If you really must know, we can discuss it after the case. Did you find anything else of interest while you were nosing around upstairs?”

Phryne knew she wasn’t going to get anything else from him, and there were more important matters at hand.

“Not particularly. She had some very attractive costume jewelry—good enough to pass for the real thing unless you’re up close, but not what I would have expected from her all the same. Classic and real seemed more her style.”

“Money troubles?”

“Perhaps. The Mathesons wouldn't be the first, given the economy. The chances of it having anything to do with her disappearance are low either way.”

“Unless she has sold the originals and replaced them with paste. Blackmail, perhaps?”

“Devious,” Phryne said. “It might be worth speaking with the Matheson’s insurance company. The styles were all rather current, so it may have been she was just disinclined to spend money on something that may only be in style for a year or two—I used to do it myself, though now I prefer to have a jeweller reset the stones if I no longer fancy the piece—but it’s curious.”

Jack nodded, taking a left turn—the music society meeting place was in another part of town, but the woman who ran it lived only a short distance from the Matheson home. They would speak with her first, to get a list of attendees and take her statement, and then contact all the potential witnesses. It could easily take them the better part of a day, even if Jack dropped Phryne off at Wardlow to pick up the Hispano and they split the interviews up. Phryne was still mulling over the most efficient way to speak with witnesses—there was the possibility of asking them to come into the station, but Jack had technically not yet returned to duty and it was a definite indication to watching kidnappers of police involvement—when they arrived at their destination. Leaping from the motorcar and striding towards the house, Phryne didn’t wait for Jack to catch up.

A butler answered the door, leading Phryne and Jack into a small parlour and retreating to speak with the mistress of the house, who quickly joined them. Mary Rutherford was a older woman, fastidious in appearance and mannerisms, and she expressed her dismay when Phryne explained why they were there. Even without mentioning the suspected abduction and ransom demands, Mary seemed genuinely concerned.

“Eleanor is such a lovely woman,” she said. “She plays the violin beautifully.”

“Was she playing last night?”

“No, we had a cellist in from Sydney, Michael Orwell.”

Phryne nodded, recognising the name.

“He recently did a tour of Europe, I believe,” she said. “A friend of mine saw him in London.”

“Yes, he did. He is experiencing a great deal of success at the moment, but he’s a childhood friend of one of our members and was kind enough to perform while visiting.”

“How fortunate for you,” Phryne said. “How was the performance?”

“Beautiful. And Michael was quite kind and talked with some of our members well past our scheduled meeting time.”

Phryne nodded. “Was Mrs. Matheson among them?”

“No, not for long. She mentioned needing to catch the last tram home, so she left shortly after ten.”

“And how did she seem last night?”

“The same as always,” Mary said decisively. “She can be rather quiet, but she was laughing and chatting away last night. You don’t think she disappeared by choice, do you?”

“Why would you think that, Mrs. Rutherford?” Jack asked; even with his gentle tone, Mary stiffened uncomfortably.

“You were asking about her behaviour,” she said. “I’m afraid I made some assumptions. But Eleanor would never leave her son behind—it took so many years for him to come along, I mean, and she adored him.”

Phryne looked to Jack pointedly, and he tipped his head in agreement: the protest and the accompanying implications—that a second person had assessed Mrs. Matheson’s likelihood of leaving, and that it was her son that meant she would stay—said a great deal more than Mary Rutherford had intended.

“We’re merely trying to get a picture of yesterday evening,” Phryne assured her. “When did she arrive? Do you recall what she was wearing? Anybody in particular she spoke with?”

“She arrived at the usual time, just before eight o’clock. Her clothes?” Mary thought for a moment. “A dove grey gown, I believe, and her coat was mink. Very simple, but she had a brooch that was quite striking—it was diamonds and aquamarines in silver, shaped like a peacock. She kept touching it throughout the evening, which is why I took note of it.”

Phryne nodded encouragingly, seeing Jack jot down the details in a notebook.

“And the people she spoke with?”

“Nobody stands out, I’m afraid, but I can get you a list of members who were present and their home addresses if that would help?”

“Yes, please.”

Mary stood, promising to be back in a moment with the society’s membership log. When she was gone, Phryne leant back in her seat and looked at Jack.

“What is our next step?” she asked, not even pausing before launching into her own assessment. “We need to interview our potential witnesses, somebody needs to go to the meeting place to see if there are any signs of a struggle, and we should contact the tram driver on the route and see if he remembers Eleanor at all.”

“The negligence accusations as well,” Jack added. “And the insurance company about the jewelry. We’re not at a loss for leads.”

“We can get in touch with the solicitor today, at least, and possibly the insurance company. The cannery might not be open on a Saturday, and who knows how forthcoming the solicitor will be.”

“You think he’ll be keeping secrets?”

“I find there are always secrets where business is involved. It’s whether they are relevant to the investigation I’m worried about.”

Jack nodded again, agreeing with her assessment.

“The longer we leave the potential abduction site the less likely we’ll find something; Will would have sent constables there—”

“But you still want to go,” Phryne finished.

“I trust his judgement, but I don’t know his men.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me,” she said, knowing that his concerns had nothing to do with her opinion but voicing her support nonetheless.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll join you,” she said.

“Don’t trust my judgement?” he teased quietly, and she smiled.

“Well, you are a little rusty.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I’ll get Collins on the tram driver and arranging an interview with the solicitor and insurance agent,” Jack said. “We can get Will’s officers on initial witness interviews, and join them once we’re done at the scene.”

Phryne nodded in agreement just as Mary returned to the room, holding a sheet of paper.

“Here’s a copy of the membership,” she said.”I’ve crossed out society members who did not attend last night, and have circled anyone I remember seeing speak with Eleanor. It’s not much help, I know, but if there is anything else I can do, please call again.”

“Of course, Mrs. Rutherford. Thank you for your cooperation,” Jack said, standing and donning his hat. “If I could trouble you to use your telephone for a moment?”

“Please, go ahead,” Mary said. “It’s just in the alcove by the front door.”

Jack left the room, and Phryne used the privacy to ask Mary whether there was anything else that might help their enquiries.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Fisher,” she said, then hesitated. “But she’s seemed far happier lately. Not that she was unhappy before, I mean, but…”

“I think I know exactly what you mean,” Phryne said, smiling. “Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

Taking her leave, Phryne went to join Jack in the hall. In the rush that morning, he’d taken his personal motorcar instead of the police-issued one; perhaps she could convince him to let her drive.

———

“Every time, Phryne,” Jack hissed as she stopped the vehicle near the church hall that held the music society’s meetings. “Every time I drive with you in the city I vow I won’t make the same mistake.”

“It’s not my fault I crave the open roads,” she said tartly, trying not to smile. “And really, I mind the pedestrians, and anybody behind the wheel of their own car ought to be quick enough to keep out of my way.”

“In my experience, _nobody_ is quick enough to get out of your way.”

“I’ll take that as the compliment I’m sure you intended it to be. Is that our Sergeant Duke?”

She nodded to a middle-aged man in a suit, who was watching two uniformed officers.

“I presume so,” Jack said. “Let me—”

But she was, of course, already out of the motorcar and steaming towards him. Grabbing his hat and grumbling under his breath, Jack followed her. She reached the sergeant before he did, holding out her hand to shake and smiling.

“Fred Duke,” the man introduced himself.

“Miss Phryne Fisher,” she said. “And this is Inspector Robinson.”

The sergeant nodded. “I know who he is. The inspector always says if we’re in a delicate situation and need to reach him, the inspector at City South is the man to speak to.”

“Does he now?” Phryne asked, turning to Jack with a smile that contained far more pride than Jack was comfortable with. “Yes, I can imagine that would be an excellent choice.”

Jack shot her a disapproving look, then turned to the other man.

“Have you spoken with Inspector Wildt?”

“Said I was to report to you—both of you—anything found, and to send off the boys wherever you said.”

“You have any objections to that?” Jack asked briskly.

“Not my job to quibble with the boss.”

“Not what I asked, sergeant.”

“Not unless you give me reason to, sir.”

Jack nodded in approval; he had no time for sycophants or rebels. Phryne clearly felt the same way, because she smiled at the man.

“So, sergeant,” Phryne asked amiably, “have you found any sign of our missing woman?”

“Not as yet, miss.The boys have gone from the meeting hall to the tram stop, both sides of the street, and were just going again. Nothing in the hall itself that we could see.”

Phryne nodded. “Could you take me inside and walk me through the route?”

“Of course, Miss Fisher,” said the sergeant, motioning her towards the building.

“You are welcome to call me Phryne,” she said, moving past him. “Spend enough time around Inspector Robinson and Miss Fisher starts to sound like a reprimand.”

“Miss Fisher!”

Phryne grinned at both men. “See?”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“Just head into the hall, Miss Fisher. I’ll begin at the tram stop.”


	5. Chapter Four

Finding no sign of Eleanor Matheson or items of interest at the church hall, Will’s men were dispersed to gather statements from all the members of the music society, while Jack headed towards the Mathesons’ solicitor and Phryne took the tram back to St. Kilda. Disembarking a stop early to visit the Collins’s cottage, Phryne hurried up the small path and knocked at the door. There was a thud and a caterwauling, and a frazzled young woman answered the door with Dot’s daughter Winifred in her arms. There was a squeal of excitement from the toddler, and the young woman winced and turned her head. 

“We ain’t—Miss Fisher!”

It took Phryne a moment to place her.

“Lola?”

“May as well call me Nell,” the woman said. “My sister can’t seem to remember anything else.”

“Is Dot in?” Phryne asked, peering inside; Dot’s decorative inclinations had far more frills and embroidery than Phryne’s, that was for sure.

Nell stepped aside, gesturing down the hall.

“In the bedroom,” she said. “I’ll go make some tea.”

Wondering what Dot could be doing in bed at this hour—it was just past noon—Phryne stepped inside. Winnie squealed again—an unmistakeable demand for attention—and Phryne waved to her absently, heading to the door Nell had indicated as quickly as possible. She knocked on it and waited for Dot’s invitation, then stepped inside.

Dot was on her side, eyes closed and a cloth over her forehead.

“Are you ill?” Phryne asked quietly.

Dot bolted upright, swaying slightly.

“Oh, miss!”

“Lie back down, Dot,” said Phryne gently. “I was coming by to see if you could help with an investigation—”

“I’m sure I can manage, miss.”

“I’m not entirely certain you can,” said Phryne softly. “You look awful. Should I have Mac stop by this evening?”

“No, it’s alright.”

“Are you certain? She won’t mind at all.”

“I know what’s wrong,” Dot said. “Nothing that time won’t cure. I might not be much use until then though. I’m sorry.”

“You need never be sorry for anything, Dot. I take it congratulations are in order?”

Dot had sunk back into her pillows, looking vaguely queasy, and nodded.

“August.”

“How wonderful! And you’ll be indisposed until then?”

“Hard to say, miss. It’s not supposed to last forever, not like this, but with Winnie…”

Dot began to cry. Phryne stood in the middle of the room, not quite certain what would actually help.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked, spying a pitcher and glass on the bedside table and moving towards it.

Dot nodded, sniffing frantically as she took the glass Phryne had poured.

“Sorry, miss. I’m so tired and sick and I thought I was ready for this again, but I can barely read Winnie a book without wanting to be ill.”

“That sounds dreadful,” Phryne said. “I can’t imagine—”

“It’s worth it,” Dot said, and pale and weak as she was her voice was firm. “God doesn’t send trials we can’t endure.”

“God ought to send a little more contraception,” Phryne retorted without thought. “Sorry, Dot.”

“It’s alright, miss. I know you must think me foolish, but it’s a sin to… well, God has His plans and it is not our place to interfere,” she said, then lowered her voice almost conspiratorially, “and I rather missed Hugh in the bed. He was so reluctant, knowing how bad it was with Winnie, but…”

“Ahh,” Phryne said. “There are ways around that.”

“I couldn’t! Father O’Leary—”

“Is _not_ in your bedroom, unless Catholics are far more liberal-minded than their Protestant counterparts. What goes on here is between you and whichever partners you choose to include.”

“Miss!” Dot gasped.

“You’ve known me long enough, Dot. That can’t possibly surprise you.”

“It’s different, miss, when you’re… well, you and the inspector, you’ll see.”

Phryne could not help the shiver of revulsion that went through her, that simply being with Jack would mean… well, all of this. But it wouldn’t. It didn’t. They had made no promises; as happy as they were for Dot and Hugh, neither of them wanted this sort of arrangement—he had not even asked for her fidelity… the small bedroom, all pink and plush and embroidered, suddenly felt confining.

“I’ll let you rest, Dot darling,” Phryne said, leaning over to press a kiss to her friend’s forehead. “And I hope you are feeling well sooner than you think.”

In her frilly nightgown, kiss mark firmly in place, Dot looked incredibly young. Phryne could not help but wonder whether this was a price that was fair to demand of anyone.

———

The Matheson’s Cannery solicitor invited Jack to his office for the interview—“If you need me at the station I can arrange it,” he had said over the telephone, “but I’m currently about twenty files deep on a Saturday and would like to see my children before bedtime this evening.”—and Jack had accepted. The offices were not what he would have expected from a law firm representing one of the major manufacturers of Melbourne, comprising of a single floor of a modest building in Hawthorn. The solicitor met Jack himself, extending a hand and a smile as he approached.

“James Elton,” he said. “You must be Inspector Robinson.”

“Yes. Is there somewhere we can speak privately, Mr. Elton?”

“Come on through to my office. It’s just me today, I’m afraid, and without my Saturday girl—she’s off visiting her mum this week—I’m afraid it’s in a bit of a state,” said the solicitor, motioning Jack through.

‘A bit of a state’ was an understatement—half the surfaces in Mr. Elton’s small office were covered in papers and files. Jack shifted some off a chair and took a seat.

“I’ve been the Matheson’s solicitor for twenty-five years,” he explained. “The cannery grew much faster than the firm. What can I do for you? You said it was about Eleanor?”

“Ronald Matheson hasn’t been in touch?” Jack asked, surprised.

“No. Should he have been?”

“Mrs. Matheson did not return home after a meeting yesterday evening,” said Jack.

If the surprise on James Elton’s face was faked, the man should have been an actor.

“That is peculiar,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve been told that you handled an accusation of negligence against the factory recently?”

“I’m afraid I can’t talk about that,” the man said immediately.

“Mrs. Matheson’s life is potentially at stake, Mr. Elton. Surely you can answer a few questions.”

“The matter was investigated. We are confident that it was unfounded, and any further legal action would draw the same conclusions.”

“And you spoke to Eleanor Matheson about this?” Jack asked, and the solicitor nodded slightly without thought. “Why not Ronald? The cannery is his, is it not?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that.”

“Did Mrs. Matheson often deal with cannery business?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that.”

“When was the last time you spoke with her?”

“Last week. Thursday, I believe.”

“And the nature of that conversation?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that.”

“How did she seem? Concerned in any way? Unhappy? Anything notable in light of her disappearance?”

“No, nothing, I’m afraid. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help—”

“But you can’t discuss it, I presume?” Jack said dryly.

Jack suppressed a sigh—he knew he would get no further with the solicitor, at least not without a warrant. Which he would request as soon as he got back to the police station, but might take some time.

“Thank you for your time,” he said instead. “If anything else comes to mind, please contact me.”

“Of course,” Mr. Elton said easily, taking the card Jack offered.

Jack wasn’t going to hold his breath. He could only hope that Phryne had turned up something useful instead.

———

Phryne smiled at the cellist as she took a seat across from him in the sitting room of his hotel suite. He was about forty, his height and thinness giving the impression of gangliness that was belied by his confident movements, his dark red hair peppered with grey rather pleasing.

“Mr. Orwell—”

“Please, call me Michael,” he said, smiling slowly.

He had a _very_ charming smile.

“Only if you call me Phryne,” she replied in return. “I understand you attended a music society meeting yesterday evening?”

His brow furrowed slightly. “I did, but I can’t imagine what a private detective would need with that information.”

“Unfortunately, one of the attendees did not return home as expected last night. An Eleanor Matheson?”

“I’m afraid I caught very few names last night.”

“A woman about your age, strawberry blonde hair and a grey gown? Wore a peacock brooch?”

“I think I know who you mean,” said Michael. “We spoke very briefly before my attentions were drawn away by a… a lady of certain years who felt that her opinions of my performance would be the high point of my evening.”

There was a hint of humour on his lips as he said it, and despite herself Phryne laughed.

“I’m afraid I know some of those ladies myself,” she said. “What was your impression of Mrs. Matheson? Did she seem peculiar in any way? Mention anything of her plans for the evening?”

“No. Utterly unremarkable, as far as I can remember. I believe she mentioned needing to catch a tram home, so she must have left quite early, but to be honest that may have been small talk with any number of society members.”

They spoke for a few more minutes, Phryne looking for any oddities from the meeting, even things the cellist might not have recognised as odd, but felt she made no headway. He was a pleasant conversationalist though; quick to respond to her verbal sparring and eager to be helpful.

“Are you performing in Melbourne during your visit?” she asked as the interview was drawing to a close.

“Just the music society last night, as a favour to an old friend,” he replied.

“A shame,” Phryne tutted—she had very much wanted to attend his performance in London the previous year, but had unfortunately been too busy with her parents to take the time away.

“Are you fond of the cello?” he asked.

“I am fond of any instrument that is played with the passion you are said to show,” she purred.

His eyes—a deep, warm brown—sparkled.

“Far be it for me to argue with a woman of discerning tastes. Perhaps a very short performance?” he offered. “I am due my daily practice in a few minutes.”

Phryne glanced at the clock—Michael was the last witness on the list and she had an hour before she was supposed to meet Jack and Will for dinner to discuss the case.

“Perhaps just a short one,” she said.

“One moment then,” he said, excusing himself to retrieve the cello—a beautiful instrument, the wood softly glowing—and took a seat.

He began his warm ups, scales and short bursts of songs that no doubt made sense to him but was like nothing Phryne had witnessed before, his head cocked to the side as he listened. After a few minutes he paused, looking at her.

“Are you familiar with The Carnival of the Animals?” he asked.

“I’ve heard it performed,” said Phryne—she had, in fact, seen Anna Pavlova’s performance of _The Dying Swan_ , and remembered very little of the music as a result.

“The Swan was the first piece I ever performed to the public,” Michael explained, and began to play.

It was… exquisite. Even in a hotel suite with less-than-perfect acoustics and no piano accompaniment the music settled in her; she watched man and instrument work together to produce the piece. Michael’s eyes were closed as his hands moved, a look of pure bliss on his face. She wondered, with no intention of finding out, whether he could play the human body with such elegance. When the music was over, he paused before opening his eyes—they pierced her where she sat, intense and longing.

“Beautiful,” Phryne exhaled. “Just beautiful.”

“Indeed,” Michael smiled, and she knew how easy it would be to close the small space between them, kiss him, take him through the door to the bedroom and satisfy the urge throbbing within her. She knew that she could, that it was nothing but her own reluctance to take something freely given which gave her pause.

Phryne stood, shaken by her own response.

“Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Orwell. If anything else comes to mind, you have my card.”

Legs trembling slightly, she left the hotel room and headed for home.

———

Phryne reached the gate leading to Wardlow’s front door just as Will was approaching from the other direction. Phryne smiled broadly, waiting for him to meet her and taking his arm as they headed up the path.

“Any news?” she asked.

“When we get inside,” Will replied quietly. “How are you, plum butter?”

“That a professional question?” she teased.

“Asking as a friend,” he said. “Is everything between you and Jack…?”

“Why? Did he say something?”

“No! No, of course not,” Will assured her, then grinned impishly. “I was simply seeing if you were sick of him yet and ready to run off with me.”

“Keep trying, Will,” Phryne laughed, patting his arm. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Will’s answering chuckle was oddly restrained, and Phryne watched him from the corner of her eye—his expression was contemplative, his body language tense.

“What?” she asked.

“Uhh, nothing. The case.”

Phryne raised a doubtful eyebrow, but didn’t challenge him. She had her own unsettled feelings to contend with. They reached the front door just as Mr. Butler opened it.

“Miss Fisher, Inspector Wildt. The inspector is in the parlour,” the man said, taking their hats and coats. “Dinner will be in twenty minutes.”

“Mr. Butler,” Phryne sighed, “how you can produce a full meal for three at a moment’s notice will never fail to astound me. I _am_ sorry for interrupting your weekend off.”

“Happy to help, miss,” he said warmly, then retreated to tend to the meal.

“A weekend off?” Will asked quietly, and Phryne rolled her eyes.

“I forgot that a police officer is never really off-duty,” she replied.

“Ahh, yes. My wife never did learn to accept that.”

Will rarely mentioned his wife, who had rather literally run off with the milkman while Will had been fighting in Europe, and Phryne wondered what had brought the woman to mind now. Hopefully _not_ the idea that she was in any way Jack Robinson’s wife; she loved the man, but ‘little woman waiting at home’ was not a role she aspired to.

“Unfortunately for Jack, I never turn a mystery down.”

“I think you’ll find that he considers himself quite fortunate,” Will replied sincerely, and Phryne wondered what had gotten into him.

“So would you, if you got to eat Mr. Butler’s cooking,” she replied instead of asking, and headed towards the parlour.

Jack was in an armchair; his head was bent as he read over his notes, but he looked up as they entered. Phoebe was curled up at his feet—when they realised that Jack’s schedule was not always conducive to owning a dog, Phryne had extended an offer to bring her to Wardlow whenever it was needed—and she looked up long enough to wag her tail enthusiastically before settling back to sleep.

“Any news?” Jack asked.

Will helped himself to a half-glass of whiskey.

“The details of the ransom drop-off arrived just over an hour ago. I have Sergeant Duke with the family and will head back after dinner, but I thought it would be best to discuss the case without the family overhearing.”

“And dinner,” Jack added knowingly, giving a small smile at his friend's legendary appetite before returning to business. “What’s the dropoff?”

“Eleven o’clock at the botanical gardens,” Will said. “They are demanding the nanny handle it.”

“The nanny?” Phryne asked. “That’s… unusual.”

Will nodded.

“What do we know about her?” Jack asked.

Will pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Amelia Harvey, 23. Been working for the family since the Matheson child was born four years ago. Her own son lives with her mother, but visits often. No criminal record, still waiting to hear back from Hatch, Match, and Dispatch about other potential connections.”

“She didn’t say?”

“She was evasive. It might be entirely unconnected, but it’s better to be thorough.”

“Did the note ask for her by name or profession?” asked Phryne.

“Name.”

“So someone who knows the family.”

“Or did their research,” added Jack. “Anything else in the note?”

“Nothing. Paper and envelope appear to match the first note. Typed. No fingerprints, not even a partial, and nobody saw the delivery.”

“You didn’t have someone watching the door?” Phryne asked.

“This came through the kitchen,” Will said. “My man was watching the door the first one was delivered to.”

“Inside job?” asked Jack.

“It’s suspicious, that’s for sure. I’ve sent the note off to the laboratory, but I’m not expecting anything of use.”

Phryne nodded absently. “Matheson has the money?”

“Yes. Ready to be delivered.”

“How does the nanny feel about it?”

“Says she’ll do it.”

“What’s the plan, then?”

“I’ll have half a dozen men stationed near the drop site.You two as well; Jack, you’ll call it. I’ll stay at the house with the rest of the family. Are we any further on identifying the abductors?”

Jack indicated a thick file on the table.

“Notes from the interviews. I’m partway through the music society members, but they all seem to say the same thing—Eleanor was there, mentioned the tram, seemed in good spirits, not sure what time she left the meeting. We’re waiting to hear back from the insurance company. Did you get any further, Phryne?”

“No. I spoke with the cellist. Michael Orwell?”she said, hating the way her voice went up slightly; Jack noticed, tilting his head slightly but not pushing the matter. “He said much the same—mentioned the tram, didn’t notice her leave. Has Hugh spoken with the tram driver yet?”

“Haven’t been able to track him down—he’s apparently a frequent inhabitant of the pubs, and you know how many of those there are. Collins has been wearing down the leather of his shoes since we sent him on the job.”

“And the solicitor?” Will asked.

“Obstreperous,” said Jack dryly. “I have a request for a warrant in. He confirmed without meaning to that Eleanor was the one he spoke with regarding the negligence accusations, but nothing else. Client confidentiality.”

Phryne sighed. “Pass me some of the notes. We might as well go through these statements before dinner is served.”

———

Dinner was, as always, exceptionally good. Even in their distracted states—all three of them had brought notes to the dining room table, shifting through papers as they cross-referenced, and looking for some detail that did not fit—they took the time to express a deep and abiding adoration for Mr. Butler’s culinary skills. Declining dessert, Will said his goodbyes; Jack walked him to the door, where he paused.

“Rosie really didn’t tell you he was back?” he asked quietly. “I thought you knew.”

“I’ve been on leave and haven’t made it to our dinners,” Jack explained, glancing into the parlour where Phryne was selecting a record. “And Phryne doesn’t know—”

“You’re keeping secrets already, Jackie?”

“No, it just…never came up, and then the case…” It sounded weak even to him. “I’ll tell her soon. We’ll ring you if we turn anything else up tonight.”

Nodding, Will donned his hat. “And I’ll do the same. I take it I’ll be reaching you here, not at home?”

Jack glanced at Phryne again—she hadn’t offered for him to stay, but it seemed an assumption he would. Or perhaps he was the one assuming. They hadn’t discussed how they would balance work and their private lives.

“Try my house first,” Jack said, “and if you can’t reach me, telephone here instead.”

Will’s expression was of utter disbelief, but he said goodbye and left. Jack headed into the parlour, where Phryne was continuing to sort through her records.

“If you didn’t have quite so many, Miss Fisher, you might be able to find the one you’re looking for,” he said dryly, and she rolled her eyes.

“An organisational system would be much easier,” she replied, “but I simply can’t choose tonight.”

Jack poured himself a whiskey and settled into one of the chairs by the fire, Phryne came over, dropping into his lap and stealing his tumbler.

“Will you play for me instead?” she asked, nodding towards the piano, her fingers already loosening his tie.

His hand was resting on her thigh, and he teasingly played scales against her crêpe de chine trousers; her head fell back as she laughed, and he took the opportunity to nibble at her throat.

“Not what I meant, Jack.”

“No?” he asked, meeting her eyes with a smirk. “My apologies for the misunderstanding.”

One hand rose to rest at the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

“Will you, please?” she asked softly.

How he could possibly be expected to say no to her when she asked like that…. He shook his head.

“One of these days I’ll not give in to your every whim,” he sighed, nudging her off his lap so he could stand and make his way to the piano.

“Yes, Jack darling,” she said dryly, “you are the very model of mindless compliance.”

Taking a seat on the piano bench, leaving space for Phryne to settle beside him, Jack ran his fingers along the keys.

“What would you like me to play, Miss Fisher?”

“The first song you ever learnt,” she said without hesitation.

“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?”

Phryne laughed. “Perhaps not. The first piece that felt like an accomplishment.”

“Also Twinkle, Twinkle,” Jack pointed out. “I was five.” 

“Very well then,” she smiled back.

Jack began to play the lullaby, to make Phryne laugh, then transitioned into one of Chopin’s Nocturnes—he’d learnt it the summer after he’d turned fourteen, when his father was ill and he’d gone to stay with his Aunt Helen in the country. It had been so hot that year that he hadn’t been able to spend much time outside, and had instead practiced the piano and raided his aunt’s extensive library to pass the time. As the song ended he turned to Phryne, planning to explain the choice, and was stopped in his tracks.

She sat beside him with her eyes closed and an expression of pure bliss on her face; in the chaos of the day she still wore the simple outfit she’d thrown together that morning, had not refreshed her makeup, and was clearly tired. She had never been more beautiful, more honest.

She must have sensed him staring, because she opened her eyes, dark with desire, and took his hand in hers.

“Jack Robinson,” she breathed, placing his hand to her breast, “I do believe that calls for an encore.”


	6. Chapter Five

It was seven in the morning when Mr. Butler knocked at the door, bearing a tray with coffee and toast. Phryne groaned as she sat up, and nudged a still-sleeping Jack. He stirred, making tiny disgruntled noises, and Phryne decided—not for the first time—that he was actually adorable. It was a descriptor that would no doubt irritate him immensely, so she took the tray from Mr. Butler and resisted the urge to tell him so. 

“Will you be requiring a full breakfast, miss?” Mr. Butler asked.

It was Jack who answered.

“No need, Mr. Butler. We have an early appointment,” he mumbled, clearly still half asleep. “Thank you.”

At Phryne’s nod of agreement, Mr. Butler retreated, and Phryne poured out the tea and spread jam onto a slice of toast as she tried not to laugh. Poor man was clearly exhausted. 

“Ordering my staff around now, are we?” she asked, before taking the first bite.

He groaned in confusion and sat up; the blanket dropped to his waist, exposing his bare chest.

“Is that for me?” he asked, tilting his head towards a teacup.

“I thought I’d have a cup for each hand,” Phryne replied dryly, then pointed. “That one there is yours.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking a sip and then fixing Phryne with curious eyes. “What were you saying about your staff?”

“In your half asleep state you told Mr. Butler not to prepare breakfast.”

He looked horrified. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Phryne asked lightly. “We don’t have time for a full meal.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“I know, Jack. But for as long as you are a guest in my bed, Mr. Butler is here to see to your needs.”

“I shouldn’t interfere with how you run your household,” he said adamantly. “I won’t.”

Phryne rolled her eyes. “You answered a question. You weren’t even fully conscious. If I had a problem with any of it, I would have said so. Also, have I ever told you that you are adorable when you sleep?”

“Adorable?” he scoffed. “I’m a grown man.”

She smirked, allowing her eyes to flick down his naked body.

“That you are, inspector. I stand by my assessment all the same.”

Jack glanced at the bedside clock.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have time to argue my case,” he said, grabbing a slice of toast and heading towards the en suite as he ate. “I have to talk to the men about the drop-off. Are you coming now or joining us at the gardens?”

“I’ll come, and ignore the fact that this is the second day in a row I’ve gotten out of bed this early,” she replied, watching his ass appreciatively as he disappeared into the en suite.

She heard the water begin to run for a bath, and imagined what Jack would be doing—selecting a bath oil to go into the water, choosing a towel, shaving with the spare razor Phryne had purchased and left in the cabinet, utterly and completely at ease as he did so. ‘As long as you are a guest in my bed,’ she had said to him; the problem was, Jack didn’t feel like a _guest_ at all. The thought prickled at her skin; her home had always been her own, and while she did not regret this development—relished it, in all honesty—the easiness with which is had happened was unsettling.

Phryne slid from beneath the sheets, wrapped a robe around herself, and followed Jack into the en suite. Perhaps she would join him in the bath. They were pressed for time, after all. And having him around wasn’t all that bad.

———

Amelia Harvey was a strange combination of mousy and determined, her green eyes firm even as she fidgeted with the handbag containing the ransom in her grasp. They were seated in the police motorcar some distance from the gardens, Amelia in the backseat.

“You’ll have eyes on you the whole time,” Jack told her. “You won’t be able to identify them, to keep their cover, but you’re in good hands. Miss Fisher will come with you as far as she can, then break off to head to the nearby café. You can meet her there once the exchange has happened, she’ll get you both to safety while my men move in.”

The plan was for Phryne to continue following Amelia, to provide a second witness to the hand-off in case thing went wrong and to help Amelia and Eleanor Matheson if it went as planned, but it was better for everyone if Amelia was not privy to that information. Amelia nodded in understanding, and out of Amelia’s sight Phryne showed Jack the handle of her revolver with a quick movement of her jacket. He gave a nod that was little more than a motion with his eyes, and Phryne turned to the young woman in the backseat.

“Now Amelia,” she said, “no matter what happens, you need to keep yourself safe. There’s no use playing the heroine if it gets you hurt, alright? Meet the contact, follow their directions, get out. Inspector Robinson’s men will handle the rest.”

“What if El—Mrs. Matheson is hurt?”

“If you can help her get out, do it, but your priority is to keep yourself safe. The police will do the rest.”

Amelia nodded again, glancing at her watch. There was nearly an hour until the scheduled meeting, and it would take about forty-five minutes to walk to the gardens.

“We’ll take a stroll,” Phryne said gently, hoping to soothe Amelia’s nerves. “Nice and easy, just two women enjoying the summer weather before it gets too hot.”

“But if they are watching the house, won’t they recognise you?”

“We’re hoping so,” said Phryne. “With any luck my dazzling presence will distract them from the more drab policemen lingering around.”

Beside her Phryne could feel Jack’s silent, subtle snort, and raised an eyebrow Amelia couldn’t see.

“I’m sure all eyes will be on you, Miss Fisher,” he said evenly. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

Phryne nodded.

“You have the bag?” she asked Amelia, though the woman had not released her grip the entire time they had sat there. 

Amelia nodded, and Phryne smiled reassuringly.

“Show time,” she said, exiting the car. Amelia followed, and Phryne took the nanny’s arm and directed her towards the botanical gardens at a slow amble. 

It was a lovely day—the sun was out but not overpowering, and a light breeze kept them sufficiently cool. As they walked, Phryne tried to engage Amelia in discussion, with only middling success; the young woman had little to say about her employers—understandable but unfortunate—or her own life. She spoke of her charge warmly, at least, smiling as she related his latest achievements. Phryne nodded along, trying not to wonder aloud when recognising a handful of letters and wiping one’s own nose had become a matter of interest to others. The conversation seemed to distract Amelia, at least, who no longer appeared nervous as they approached one of the entrances to the botanical gardens—the only sign of hesitance was a brief stutter as they turned left onto a particular path as instructed. Phryne patted her arm, feeling the girl’s determination strengthen at her touch.

“You’ll do fine,” she said quietly, looking around the park—she recognised Bert and Cec near a copse of trees, one of the constables from City South was seated on a picnic blanket across the way, she knew there were others that she couldn’t immediately identify. “You will be entirely safe, I promise you.”

“Yes, of course,” Amelia said weakly.

“Here’s where I leave you,” Phryne said, giving the girl a kiss on the cheek as a pretense to whisper in her ear. “Police officers will be with you the entire time. The abductors have no reason to hurt you. Just follow the instructions—”

“Get in, hand off, get out,” Amelia repeated firmly, as much for herself as Phryne.

“Precisely. Ten minutes from now it will be over.”

Amelia nodded again, gripping her bag tightly and drawing a deep breath, and headed down the path. Phryne turned towards the café, glancing around quickly—the area was chosen because it was open and anybody following Amelia would be easy to spot, but there was nothing. Slipping off the path as she rounded a corner, Phryne doubled back before Amelia was completely out of sight. Moving as subtly as possible, Phryne was maybe a hundred yards away when the nanny reached the curve in the path that disappeared into the trees. 

A man stood from a park bench, folding his newspaper and heading in the same direction; it was most likely a constable—Phryne remembered Jack mentioning one of his men would have a paper—but she took note of his appearance just in case. Dark hair, broad shoulders, a slight oddness to his gait. He was closing in on Amelia, who stood towards the edge of the path and was glancing around; before he could get closer a pack of children on bicycles—fifteen, maybe twenty of them in total—turned the corner, pedalling at full speed and shouting. It was only a minute, maybe a minute and a half, for them to pass, but it was enough time for Amelia to slip from Phryne’s sight in the commotion.

Hurrying in the direction Amelia had been headed, she noticed the suspected constable had lost track of Amelia as well, and was now talking to one of the boys on bicycles.

“Every Sunday, sir!” the boy said sharply as Phryne drew into earshot. “Miss Smith lets us out of church and we take this route.”

She kept walking, not acknowledging what was undoubtedly a police officer; it must have been a deliberate distraction, locating the handoff here, but entirely unpredictable unless one happened to be in the Botanical Gardens every Sunday. Damn it. It was a considered choice, and careful criminals were Phryne’s least favourite type.

There was nothing to indicate where Amelia had gone off the path or whether she’d been joined by anyone. Phryne could only hope someone else had managed to keep the nanny in sight—as if summoned, Bert and Cec came from the other direction, shaking their heads slightly at Phryne’s curious gaze. Double damn.

She kept walking, pausing briefly as she drew level with the cabbies.

“I’m going back to the café,” she said quietly. “Amelia can’t have gone far—”

“We’ll find where she’s been, miss,” said Cec.

Phryne nodded. “The man back there’s a constable. As soon as you spy Amelia, have him come with you and head the direction she came. If Eleanor Matheson is with her or she’s hurt in any way, one of you play Good Samaritan and help them to the café.”

Bert nodded, and Phryne gave him a small smile. Damn, damn, damn. Amelia would head to the café as directed though, and it was her best—

A woman’s scream rent the air, and on instinct Phryne turned and ran towards it. Bert and Cec followed, and the officer she’d noticed did as well. Her hand went to her pistol, and when a stick cracked ahead she nearly drew it—Amelia appeared before she could, utterly terrified and clutching a box. Reaching her first, Phryne clapped a reassuring hand on her shoulder and turned to direct the girl towards Bert and Cec; she grasped onto Phryne instead, sobbing and pushing the box into Phryne’s hand.

“They—they—her _finger_!” Amelia wailed, and Phryne’s heart sank.

“Amelia, breathe,” Phryne instructed, pulling the box away in the hopes of not obscuring any fingerprints on it; she’d worn her gloves, at least, which would help. The young woman was sobbing, limbs flailing, and Phryne murmured soothing words. “Come on, now. Breathe deeply, there’s a good girl.”

Good lord, she sounded like her Aunt Prudence when the woman got it in her head to be comforting.Unacceptable. Phryne ushered Amelia towards Cec, and she went. Turning to the box with a sense of dread, she opened it—nestled in a bed of ice was a woman’s finger. Damn, damn, damn, damn, _fuck_.The first constable reached the small group, and Phryne turned to him.

“Miss Harvey came from that direction,” she said, gesturing. “There’s no sign Mrs. Matheson was ever here, but…” she held out the box, and the constable turned slightly green. “We’ll need to get this to Doctor MacMillan at the—” she paused, not wanting to set Amelia off more, and recovered quickly, “No. Bring this to the inspector. Gather up the rest of the men here, then all of you need to go that direction, see if you can find any evidence of our abductors. I’ll see if I can get more information from Miss Harvey.”

The constable looked as if he were about to argue, but Phryne raised an eyebrow. 

“I don’t know if you’re Wildt’s man or Jack’s, but neither one of them would be happy to hear you’re quibbling with me,” she said curtly, trying not to roll her eyes at the idea of invoking a man as support for her decisions. It was the most efficient method, in this case, and it got the job done—the constable nodded and hurried off, stopping to talk to several men along the way. 

Phryne turned back to Amelia, and discovered Cec had led her to a nearby bench. She had stopped crying, it seemed, but was sniffing loudly into a handkerchief. Phryne crossed the small distance and took a seat next to her.

“Amelia,” she said gently, “I need you to tell me everything you remember about what just happened.”

“I—I was walking along and those bicycles came so fast then a man tugged on my arm and led me… led me into the trees,” she sniffed.

“Did you get a good look at him?” Phryne asked. “Anything you can tell us? What he was wearing, or his features?”

“Average, miss. Real average,” Amelia said, the cultured tones of a middle-class nanny falling into something far more working class. “Taller ‘an me, but not too tall. Blondish-brownish hair. Nuffin’ special.”

Phryne was rapidly falling out of variations of damn. “And what happened after you went into the trees?”

“He joined another bloke, average looking same as the first, and took the money from the bag. Said they’d release Mrs. Matheson in twenty-four hours, soon as they made their escape. Then ‘e gave me the box and they was gone, real quick like.”

Phryne nodded. “Did you see which direction they went?”

Shaking her head, Amelia looked down at the ground. “I was too busy wondering about the box.”

“Understandable. And you opened it—”

“And I screamed. It’s her finger, miss. Mrs. Matheson’s, I mean. I recognised the ring.”

“Alright,” Phryne said soothingly. “You have done so very well. Do you think you can lead us back to where you were?”

Amelia burst into tears once more.

———

Jack had parked the police motorcar several streets away from the entrance nearest the meeting place, and was tapping his fingers against the wheel.The idea was leaving him there and Phryne going to the café would hopefully act as a buffer against suspicions of his men at the gardens, but not having eyes of the scene himself was unsettling. And it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Phryne—he was well aware that the woman was probably more qualified than he was—he just…

A knock on the motorcar window disturbed him. It was Jones, looking rather peakish. Jack opened the door.

“Constable. Is our missing woman—”

“No, sir,” said Jones. “There was a commotion and we lost Miss Harvey, and when she returned, the abductors had taken the money and…” he gulped here, holding out a box. “Miss Fisher said to bring you this.”

Using a handkerchief, Jack took it from Jones; when he saw what rested inside, he cursed softly. Damn it. 

“Bring this to Doctor MacMillan at the morgue,” he directed. “Immediately. Tell her Miss Fisher and I will be by this afternoon for an update.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jones, heading towards one of the police motorcars parked nearby.

When he was gone, Jack ran his hand over his mouth. He would need to telephone Will with an update; the café at the gardens should have a telephone he could use. And he’d need to speak with Phryne, see how Miss Harvey had been lost in the first place. Stepping from the car, he strode towards the gardens. 

Phryne was at the café when he arrived; she had purchased the shaken nanny a cup of tea and was attempting to keep her calm, and Jack paused for a second just to watch her. When she spied Jack she stood, coming over.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low.

“Some kids on bicycles.”

Jack raised an eyebrow doubtfully and Phryne rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“Apparently, about twenty of them ride by every Sunday, same time. Amelia says she was pulled into the copse by one of the men—there were two of them—and the money was taken and the box given to her, with the promise to release Eleanor in twenty-four hours,” she said, her voice slightly higher in pitch than usual. “I’ve got your men combing the area for any sign, but Amelia’s so upset she couldn’t even lead us back.” 

Studying her face, Jack tried to put his finger on what was off about her reaction. Not a lie, he thought, but strained. 

“Do you doubt Miss Harvey?” he asked.

“She was out of sight for a minute, maybe a minute and a half before she must have reached the trees. I don’t doubt her, but…”

“The timing is suspicious.”

“They either got incredibly lucky or it was a planned distraction. Either way…”

Jack nodded, resisting the impulse to reach for Phryne’s hand and squeeze in reassurance. It was an odd urge, and passed quickly. 

“It doesn’t quite add up,” he agreed. “Has Miss Harvey given us anything to go off of—physical descriptions? Did she recognise the men?”

“Nothing. We haven’t had any witnesses come forward, we’ve found no evidence of the men…” Phryne sighed, clearly frustrated. “I keep wondering if we could have done this differently, but I fail to see how. We had nearly a dozen people watching her, we couldn’t predict the distraction, we only lost her for… three or four minutes total?”

Jack nodded; it had been the best plan with what they had, but he didn’t like it either.

“I’ve sent the box to Mac,” he said. “Hopefully she can tell us when the finger was removed, and if Mrs. Matheson was alive when it happened.”

Phryne cast a look to where Amelia Harvey sat nursing a cup of tea. The woman was pale and clearly horrified.

“I think we need to get her home,” Phryne said.

“I’ll telephone Will first, let him know what happened,” Jack agreed. Then he reached out to touch Phryne’s elbow, giving her a small smile in reassurance. “You did everything you could to keep her safe, Miss Fisher.”

“And how do you know that, Jack?” she challenged, clearly determined to bear the burden of guilt.

“I know you.”

The wan smile she managed didn’t quite reach her eyes.


	7. Chapter Six

Arriving back at the Matheson property, Jack saw Rosie standing by the front door as if waiting for them. Phryne caught his eye and gave a tight-lipped smile, clearly still unsettled from events at the gardens. Before Jack could say anything—and really, there was little to say—she slipped out of the vehicle, escorting Amelia around the side of the house to enter through the kitchen. Jack exited the motorcar, coming to lean against the bonnet as his ex-wife approached. 

“She didn’t…?” Rosie trailed off, looking over Jack’s shoulder as if Eleanor Matheson would appear any moment. 

“It was either the worst stroke of luck or they made our men,” Jack said as gently as he could. “They _are_ still promising to release her.”

“When?” she challenged, fingers fidgeting. 

Jack sighed. “You know I can’t discuss police business, Rosie.”

“She’s my friend, Jack.”

“I know,” he said soothingly; her expression was composed, but Jack recognised the warble in her throat and the clenching of her hands. “And the minute there is something I can pass on, I will. But right now you have to trust me to do my job.”

“But if they have the money…”

Jack didn’t like it either; the distraction felt deliberate, and it had been a dangerous gamble on the part of the kidnappers. His men had scoured the woods for any hint of the meeting site without success, and the nanny had been too shaken to lead them back with any accuracy. Years of experience and intuition told him that he was missing some context or clue that would explain it, but without it…. 

“We’re doing everything we can,” he said. “I have to go fill Will in, and we’re not going to stop working on this, I promise. The best thing you can do right now is stay with Mr. Matheson, work your magic,” he gave her a small, encouraging smile. “He might know more than he realises, and he’s more likely to speak with you than a police officer.”

She gave him a shaky smile in return, nodding slightly. 

“Have you spoken with the solicitor about the negligence accusations?” she asked.

“We didn’t get very far,” Jack said. “We’ll speak with him again in the morning, when we have a warrant.”

“Elle…” Rosie hesitated, stepping closer and dropping her voice. “Elle is… seeing somebody at the factory. Has been for a few months. Ron doesn’t have a head for business—numbers, yes, but not people—and so she did a lot behind the scenes; she had to learn after her brother died and she inherited the family business. That’s how the affair began. I don’t know his name, just that he works in the office.”

“Does Mr. Matheson know?” asked Jack; an affair would open up a number of motives and suspects. 

“I doubt it. He… he’s not a bad man, Jack. But he had expectations…”

“That Mrs. Matheson didn’t meet?”

“They wanted the same thing when they married,” Rosie said, and Jack smiled sadly at the familiar line . “But they… grew apart. She was lonely, and I think he—he met his needs elsewhere as well.”

“Miss Harvey.”

Rosie shrugged. “Elle never said, but that’s what I presumed. She’s very much his type. They seemed happy enough with the arrangement though, in their way. But I thought you ought to know, especially about the other man. I’m sure it’s nothing, but…”

“Thank you,” Jack said sincerely.

Rosie smiled and didn’t reply, and the silence stretched awkwardly between them. Jack was about to excuse himself to return to work when she glanced down to adjust the edge of her glove. 

“I telephoned the house last night,” she said, not looking up. “You didn’t answer.”

“I was working.”

“With her?”

“She has a name.”

Rosie scoffed. “Did you ‘discuss police business’? Because you’re not allowed to do that, you know. Isn’t that what you always said?”

“Rosie—”

“No, Jack,” she cut him off, reaching up to straighten her hat. “When she came back to Melbourne… you _promised_ me you’d be careful. She left you with nothing, then waltzed back in and expected you to pick up where you left off without consequences. And now you’re practically living with her!”

Sighing, Jack considered his answer carefully. Shortly after Phryne’s return Rosie had voiced her concerns, and he’d appreciated her honesty; from the outside, it was a terrible idea. He had assured her that he and Phryne were being cautious, that they had no intention of rushing into things but he needed to try. None of them could have predicted the undercover assignment and ensuing near-death experience mere weeks later, or how it had thrust the tentative relationship into something…more.

“Have you thought this through at all?” she badgered. “I know you care for her, more fool you—” 

“Rosie,” he warned; this was not a conversation he was willing to have, especially under the circumstances.

She looked chastised for a moment, but barrelled on. “It needs to be said, Jack. She’s beautiful, yes, and charming and rich and by all accounts rather liberal with her affections—”

“I’m not doing this,” he said, his quiet tone dangerous. “Phryne and I are _not_ your business.”

Rosie looked at him, clearly peeved. “Of course you are, Jack.”

“And you and David?” Jack challenged. “Is that my business? Because you do _not_ have the moral high ground right now.”

He hadn’t meant to bring it up, and pressed his lips together as if he could take it back. Rosie was having none of it, eyes blazing with fury.

“Don’t you dare, Jack Robinson. You don’t get to throw that at me now just because you’re cross—”

“I’m not cross, Rosie. I am _furious_. You are treating me like a child who is incapable of making his own decisions—”

“Clearly you make them so well,” she retorted. 

He narrowed his eyes. “I think you gave up any right to pass judgment when you left, Rosie.”

“What other choice did I have?” she asked, exasperated.

There hadn’t been another option, and he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, knowing he should diffuse the situation. Rosie had worked herself into a lather though, the stress of the last two days directed at the only available target. 

“Tell me, does sleeping with that woman bring the profession into disrepute?”

His eyes snapped open, his jaw clenching. 

“I don’t know. Does having an affair with your mate’s wife while he’s at war?” he shot back, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Rosie stared at him for a moment, mouth agape, then pulled herself upwards. 

“It is remarkable to me how you forgave me for that years ago, but the moment it’s convenient to you…” 

It had been a cheap shot, meant to hurt rather than resolve the argument; years of habits were not easily forgotten, even with the friendship they had found. 

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “I know…”

She had been young and scared and her relationship—such as it was—with David had been the only thing that had kept her afloat in uncertain times. He had, eventually, come to be glad for it. 

Rosie crossed her arms, frowning.

“The fact remains Jack, that woman is trouble. She was flirting with Will right in front of us both yesterday!”

“Your point?” Jack asked dryly. “They both took a moment for a little levity. In poor taste at a crime scene, perhaps, but hardly worth tarring the woman over.”

“She has a _reputation_ , Jack, and she’ll ruin yours.”

“Let it be ruined,” he said bluntly. 

She dropped her arms to her side, looking at him in exasperation. 

“You cannot possibly mean that.” 

“Mean what?”

“You would destroy your career over a woman who is just as likely to flee the continent at a moment’s notice than not?”

Jack pushed himself off the car.

“I am willing to risk my career for a woman I love, Rosie. But so far the only person who has a problem with it is you, and I don’t think you’re completely unbiased. If you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”

“Jack!” Rosie called after him.

He kept walking.

———

Leaving Jack to speak with Rosie—Phryne could imagine how distressed the poor woman would be, and thought it best to trust the matter to Jack—she headed towards the kitchen with Amelia. Stepping through the door, she became aware of a small blur running past her to embrace Amelia.

“Where’s mum?” asked the boy.

“Still having a lovely holiday,” Amelia lied quickly, and Phryne was impressed with her ability to improvise given her previous level of distress. “She says she’ll be home very soon.”

The child accepted this without question, hanging off Amelia’s arm and asking for a biscuit. Leaving Amelia to make a cup of tea and promising to come back soon, Phryne headed towards the parlour. 

Ronald Matheson was seated in the same place he had been the day before, and Phryne wondered whether he had moved at all; he was far more composed than she would have expected under the circumstances, particularly in contrast to the day before and with the latest development, but perhaps it was a pretense. Catching Will’s eye, she tilted her head in question towards the man, wondering if he’d been told; Will subtly nodded his head. Very peculiar.

“Mr. Matheson?” Phryne said, and the man stirred.

“Miss Fisher!”

“Has Inspector Wildt explained the events of this morning?”

Matheson nodded.

“We have reason to believe that this was a deliberate setup,” Phryne said. “I know we’ve already asked, but can you think of anybody that would wish you or your wife harm? Perhaps someone associated with your business, personal conflicts, old grudges, anything at all?” Phryne wondered how far she could push her luck and decided to go for it. “A disgruntled employee, perhaps?”

“I’ve already told you I can’t think of anybody,” Matheson said, voice firm.

“Come now, Mr. Matheson. No successful businessman is entirely without enemies. No accusations from people let go? No lay-offs? No business that could have gone to another cannery?”

“Are you implying that I engage in shady business practices?” he asked, looking over her coolly.

“Mr. Matheson, your wife’s finger is currently in a box,” Phryne said, opting for bluntness; Matheson didn’t so much as blink at the statement. “I am merely looking for any possible line of inquiry so we can get her back home. A priority I’m sure we share.” 

“I do not know anyone,” he repeated levelly; gone was the impassioned man promising to pay any ransom from the day before. Which was evidence of nothing in and of itself, but Phryne could not help but find it suspicious.

Pacing the room, half in irritation and half in investigation, Phryne barely noticed when Jack quietly joined them in the parlour, expression contemplative. Will had continued talking with Matheson—Phryne was perversely pleased to realise that he was asking all the same questions she would have, confirming that he was a more than competent police officer—but did not seem to be getting anywhere. After her third lap of the room with no further insights, Phryne turned on her heel to look at Ronald Matheson.

“Excuse us for a moment,” Phryne said, “but I need to speak with my colleagues. Perhaps you could arrange for some tea while we step out, Mr. Matheson?”

The man nodded, and Phryne motioned to Will and Jack to join her. Ducking into the dining room, where they would not be overheard, Phryne turned to the two police officers.

“We aren’t getting the full story,” she said, more out of frustration than the thought they didn’t know. “What sort of man hears that his wife’s finger was delivered in a box and doesn’t ask questions?”

“One who is horrified?” Will suggested. “A person acting oddly is not enough to convict them, nor should it be.”

Phryne looked at him sharply. “I didn’t say it was, but you have to admit it was odd.”

“Very.”

“I think it’s time to dig up any skeletons hidden in the Matheson cupboards,” Phryne said.

“Do _try_ not to make that literal, Miss Fisher,” Jack groaned, then dropped his voice even lower. “I do know one though—Eleanor Matheson was involved with an employee at the cannery.”

“Was she really?” Phryne asked, already wondering what this new information meant for the investigation; she looked to Jack, who was still half-lost in thought, and smiled playfully.“You are getting efficient at uncovering the gossip.”

“It’s almost as if it was my job, Miss Fisher,” he replied dryly. “And I had a… beneficial connection to the source of that information.”

“Rosie?”

Jack nodded.

“She _would_ know,” muttered Will, and all the oddness of the past day—Will’s apparent apathy towards Rosie, Jack’s evasiveness, the mysterious David and the half-caught conversations surrounding his presence—clicked into place for Phryne. It was obvious in hindsight, and any lingering doubts were quickly snuffed out by Jack’s strained expression.

“We need to go to the factory first thing tomorrow. We won’t have a warrant before then,” he said.

“Another early morning, then,” Phryne said brightly. “I’m beginning to think you’re a bad influence, Jack.”

“If you ever start following the rules, then I’ll be concerned,” he replied. “Until that time…”

Phryne found she had the absurd desire to reach out and straighten his tie, feel his solid chest beneath her palm and reassure herself that he was the same as he had always been. The revelation of Rosie’s apparent infidelity, and Jack’s failure to mention it, had settled like a rock in her gut; no doubt the sensation would pass, but for the moment… She forced herself to smile instead. 

“I think that might be a step too far,” she said with forced lightness. “Shall we go digging for those skeletons?”

Jack nodded, turning to leave. Will went to follow, but Phryne caught his arm and pulled him back. When Jack was far enough ahead she dropped her hold, folding her arms in front of her instead.

“On the subject of skeletons…. What happened with Rosie?”

“Not my story, plum butter,” Will said almost apologetic.

“Alaric Wildt, if you think that has ever worked on me…”

“Phryne Fisher,” he replied, mimicking the sharp pitch of her voice, “are you threatening a member of the constabulary?”

Phryne arched an eyebrow. “She had an affair, I presume, but…”

Will ran a hand over his short hair and rocked back on his heels. Phryne waited.

“You’ll keep this quiet?”

“Of course,” Phryne promised. “Won’t even mention to Jack that you told me.”

Another pause, and then Will sighed.

“David Thornton—that’s the man here with Rosie—went to the Academy with Jack and me,” he confessed.

“Not a recent connection then?”

“If you’re going to badger me, let me tell the story at least,” Will said, his tone reprimanding and slightly amused. “He didn’t sign up when war broke out—it was discouraged, you know, for police officers—and while Jack and I were in Europe he… he and Rosie grew quite close, as I understand it.”

“How long?” Phryne asked, uncertain whether she wanted to know but unable to stop herself.

“Uhh… shortly before we were shipped home in 1919 David’s mother took ill and he took a position in Sydney to care for her. They were still writing letters in 1923. Jack came across one, accidentally. That’s how he found out. I don’t know if it ever really ended.”

Phryne tried to reconcile this information with the little Jack had mentioned about his failed marriage—there had never been a hint of such a thing, timing of Rosie’s engagement to Sydney Fletcher aside. Not that he was likely to mention it; he had always taken great pains to be respectful towards his ex-wife, and had credited his changed behaviour after the war for the divorce. She could not help but wish that he had told her though, and wondered what David’s reappearance would mean. For him, for them. Which was a damned foolish thing to be concerned with when they had a missing woman to find, so Phryne buried it deep and gave Will a smile.

“We have witnesses to interview,” she said, then felt her resolve weaken just a little. “And thank you, for telling me.” 

Will smiled back. “We could wait forever for Jackie to do it.” 

———

Descending the narrow staircase that led to an attic storeroom—Phryne had taken the idea of skeletons in cupboards far more literally than usual and had sent him scurrying off to several long-forgotten corners, with the dust on his trousers to prove it—Jack saw her standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting impatiently.

“Miss Fisher.”

“Inspector.”

“Is there something I could assist you with?”

“There is, actually,” she said, trying to hide a smirk as she played coy. “While attempting to investigate some bottles on a high shelf, my remarkably keen eyes glimpsed what may very well be a peacock brooch…”

“And you can’t reach it,” he concluded, playing into her game.

“The furniture is too heavy to move to climb up,” she said. “But luckily for me, I’m certain you would lend a helping hand.”

“And if I didn’t?”

“You’re far too thorough an investigator,” Phryne said dismissively.

“I’m sure you’d find no end of willing assistants even if I wasn’t,” Jack said, and if it wasn’t so out of character he would have sworn she winced. He gestured down the hall with open palms. “Lay on, MacDuff.”

She led him towards the back of the house, eventually arriving in a small room that appeared to serve as a laundry. A heavy table was along the wall opposite to the shelf Phryne indicated, and a washtub took up much of the available floor space. There was a small stool, neither tall enough nor stable enough to use safely, which Phryne promptly climbed onto.

“I can’t… quite… reach,” she said, rising onto her toes for extra height; Jack stepped behind and moved his hands to steady her, his thumb absently stroking the skin of her back where her blouse had risen, and after some careful rummaging she gave a hum of victory. 

“A-ha!” she exclaimed, quickly climbing down with brooch in hand. “Not only does this brooch match the description Mary Rutherford gave us, one of the bottles up there is chloroform. And thanks to Dot’s excellent tutelage, I know that chloroform is commonly used as a stain remover, yet I find myself curious nonetheless.” 

Jack nodded in acknowledgement. “I think we need to speak with the rest of the household again. I’ll have a constable write up notes on the scene if you want to head back to the parlour.”

“I’ll see where Amelia Harvey has gone first,” Phryne said. “If Eleanor was as devoted to her son as everyone thinks, I’m sure she would have said goodnight before leaving—”

“Meaning our nanny should have some idea what she was wearing.”

“Precisely,” Phryne said, extracting an envelope from her bag to place the brooch inside. “Something is rotten in the State of Denmark, and it’s time to follow the stench.”

Gliding effortlessly out of the room, Phryne was soon out of sight. Jack spoke with one of the constables on scene, instructing him to take an inventory of the scene for the report and to dust for fingerprints, then headed to the parlour where Mr. Matheson was still sitting. 

There was no denying that the situation was odd, though he was loath to accuse a man without evidence. It was all circumstantial suppositions, really. Abductions for ransom were rare but dramatic, catching the public’s imagination and garnering sympathy for those left behind. Matheson’s reactions had been almost too perfect. There was motive, and given Phryne’s discovery of the peacock brooch there was almost certainly opportunity as well. Jack’s intuition told him it was a case with ties far closer to home than strangers on the street, but there was nothing solid on that front. Yet. 

Taking a seat beside Will, who was reading through witness statements from the morning’s incident at the park—and it was best to think of it as an incident—Jack waited for Phryne to reappear, making small talk with Ronald Matheson. Rosie stopped by the room to offer tea, but retreated quickly; Jack could appreciate her concern, but he had no time for meddling while Eleanor was still missing. Eventually Phryne returned to the parlour, showing Matheson the peacock brooch.

“Do you recognise this?” she asked.

“That’s Eleanor’s,” he replied, squinting to take it in. “She was complaining a few weeks ago that she’d misplaced it. Wherever did you find it?”

“Thank you, Mr. Matheson,” Phryne smiled, neatly sidestepping the question, and Jack had to admire her abilities once again. “We’re continuing our search for Eleanor, and if we have any leads you will be the first to know. Inspectors, may I have a word?”

Jack and Will both stood, following her to the dining room across the corridor.

“That was word-for-word what Amelia Harvey said when I spoke to her just now,” Phryne observed quietly, then handed the brooch over to Will. “We found this on a shelf in the laundry. A place it might have ended up if it was tangled in her clothes, yet I spoke with the housekeeper who didn’t recall finding it.”

“Didn’t one of the witnesses mention she was wearing this Friday night?” Will asked.

“More than one,” Phryne said. “A fact that our husband and nanny were not aware of.” 

Will nodded in understanding. “We’ll need to speak with the coroner once he’s examined the finger—”

“I sent it to Mac,” Jack interrupted.

“Once she’s examined the finger,” amended Will easily.

“We were going to head over now,” Phryne said, “and telephone you with the results. Unless you need Jack to stay?”

For a moment they seemed to be having a discussion Jack was not privy to, and likely would not have noticed if he’d not known both participants so well—it was nothing more than a slight lean of the head, a raised eyebrow, a twist of the lips. Really, he supposed he should be more concerned than he actually was. Either way, it was over in a moment and Will smiled.

“Go along then, Jackie,” he grinned, clearly enjoying this. “You have your orders from a higher power than me.”

Phryne grinned as well, then patted Jack’s folded arms affectionately. “I’ll see you at the morgue in twenty minutes. And don’t be late, inspector—it would make a terrible impression on your superiors.”

“Miss Fisher—”

“I’m joking, Jack,” she said, then winked. “I’m not one to judge a man on his driving habits, even if they are painfully cautious.”

And with that, she returned to the parlour to bid people farewell and steamed out of the house. As the door shut behind her, Rosie came to join Jack and Will in the dining room. Will made a strained retreat, and Rosie looked to Jack.

“I really hope you aren’t—”

“Don’t, Rosie,” warned Jack. “I’m really not in the mood.”

“Who does she think she is, commanding you like a disobedient dog?”

The contrast to Will’s affectionate teasing was marked, and Jack bit back a retort; there had never been any point in arguing with Rosie when she was like this, and under the circumstances he could understand why she was choosing to focus on it instead of the disappearance of a friend. Jack sighed.

“I have more work to do,” he said, as gently as he could. “If you need to speak with me—”

“I know exactly where to find you,” Rosie finished tartly, her mouth drawn into a moue of disapproval.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a brief moment to plug [The Third Phryne Ficathon](firesign23.tumblr.com/post/164417577747/phryne-ficathon-3-phracking-in-the-new-year), since I know not everyone is on Tumblr. Signups close September 21st!

Arriving at the morgue well before Jack—there were some advantages to driving at a reasonable speed, aside from the sheer pleasure of it—Phryne sought out Mac, who was eating an early dinner in her office. 

“If you’re here about the finger,” Mac said, “I’m not discussing it over a meal.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Phryne replied blithely, “and I told Jack I’d wait for him.”

“Did you?” Mac asked, raising an eyebrow. “That is a first.”

“I never said how long for,” she grinned. “But I knew you’d be eating.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“It’s the Sunday after the university’s beginning of term shindig,” Phryne observed, “meaning you wouldn’t have wanted to face food this morning, and by the pile of paperwork on your desk you’ve had a full day. You might have gone to the pie cart, of course, but I thought it more likely that Dr. Franklin would supply the meal on her way to the lab, and she wasn’t due in until…” Phryne carefully regarded the state of Mac’s sandwich, and tried not to smirk at the tiniest hint of a blush on her friend’s face, “twenty minutes ago?”

“Fifteen,” Mac replied. “I was hungry.”

“Either way, waiting was no effort on my part.”

“How noble of you,” Mac said dryly, starting on another sandwich. “Do you want some?”

Phryne took the offered food. “I missed my own lunch, so thank you.”

“Very little gets between you and a hot meal. The case?” Mac asked.

“It simply doesn’t make sense,” Phryne sighed. “Or perhaps it would make sense if I were more cynical, but I have to believe that Eleanor Matheson is still alive. And with Rosie there, it’s—”

“Rosie Sanderson?”

Phryne nodded. “She’s a friend of the victim. It’s how we were called in on the case.”

Mac looked surprised, and Phryne sighed.

“She called Jack, not me.”

“Awkward.”

“A little, yes. Not as awkward as when we discovered that she called us because she and Will have a decade-long disagreement and he’s assigned to the case, or that she was there with an old colleague of Jack’s.”

“That sounds…”

“I’m trying not to think about it,” Phryne said, deciding to skirt around the specifics of the relationships; she was still deciphering them herself. “Suffice to say, I feel like I stepped into a battlefield without being told who the combatants are.”

“What did Jack say about it?”

“Not enough.”

“Did you ask?”

“Of course not.”

Mac rolled her eyes. “I’m so pleased you two continue to communicate about the important things.” 

Glancing out the open door to make sure nobody was in hearing distance, Phryne leaned against the desk and grinned. “As opposed to you, who didn’t even know if the object of your affection enjoyed the company of women until she kissed you…”

“That is a gross oversimplification of events,” Mac said dryly. “Shall we discuss our finger after all?”

Hearing Jack’s footsteps coming down the corridor, Phryne smirked and waited for him to be in earshot.

“Better not,” she said, knowing Mac would recognise the glint of mischief on her face. “Poor Jack has a hard enough time keeping up, best not to have a head start.”

“Miss Fisher,” he said dryly from the door. “Are we continuing to disparage the Victorian Constabulary?”

“Never, Jack!” she charmed, turning to greet him. “Merely observing that it would give me an unfair advantage.”

“When has that ever stopped you?” he replied, the tiniest teasing smirk in the corners of his eyes.

“I’m sure it would,” she purred, angling her body towards him, “under the right circumstances.”

“I shudder to think what those would be,” he said, joining them in the office.

“Either way,” said Phryne brightly, “you’re here now and Mac is done eating, so we’ll find out together.”

Rolling her eyes and muttering something about keeping foreplay out of her office, Mac stood from her desk and led them back into the morgue itself.

“I’m not sure how much help I will be,” she said, pulling out the box containing the finger. “It’s a finger, most likely a woman’s based on the size and the condition of the fingernails, but I don’t have Eleanor Matheson’s fingerprints to compare it to. It was removed pre-mortem—”

“So she’s still alive?” Phryne asked, relieved.

“Possibly,” Mac cautioned. “That’s where things get complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Jack asked.

“The finger shows signs of being frozen and then thawed,” Mac said. “The damage is deeper in the tissue than I would expect from being on ice in that box, meaning it might have been removed and stored. Or it might have been transported far enough that it froze. There’s really no way to tell at this juncture how long it was frozen or when it was removed, just that the person was alive when it was done.” 

Phryne looked to Jack. “Yet more to suggest that this is not the abduction-for-ransom story we are being spoonfed.”

He nodded.

“Anything else, Doctor MacMillan?”

“Not at this point,” she said, returning the box. “I’ll let you know if I turn up something, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.” 

“Thank you, Mac,” Jack said warmly, and Phryne felt a rather ridiculous brush of pleasure at the mutual respect and fondness between her best friend and her… well, lover seemed so insufficient and suitor made her feel like a passive object being pursued. Her Jack, she supposed.

Phryne felt her smile slip, and she took a step backwards while Mac and Jack spoke briefly about a case that was due to go to trial in a few weeks. It did not worry her, all the ways they had had come to belong together, though perhaps it should have; she was certain in the resilience and depth of their feelings, and in their ability to navigate whatever came their way. This discovery of Rosie’s infidelity was nothing more than a minor…well, it did not change how Phryne felt. It merely… well, if she were to be completely honest with herself—and she did try to be completely honest with herself—it made her wonder how he could offer her the choice to sleep with other men. It had been his suggestion, and he’d seemed sincere as he’d said it, but some part of her could not reconcile this acceptance with his previous ideals, especially in light of this new information. Perhaps fear had driven his words, or resignation that she would eventually choose to wander, and neither idea was welcome. She would need to speak with him.

His conversation with Mac finished, he turned and smiled at her. She loved his smiles—the warmth, the subtlety, the surprising frequency from such a stoic man—and she realised she felt no dread at the prospect of such a discussion. Even if, perhaps, he proved to be a far better person than even she knew. And if it was fear of losing her that had led to the offer… well, they would deal with that as it came. It hadn’t even been her idea, after all. 

“If that’s all for tonight,” Phryne said, “I think perhaps it is time to head home. Mr. B will be serving dinner in an hour, and you, Jack, need time to clean up.”

She looked at the knees of his trousers pointedly; they were filthy, evidence of his thoroughness in investigations but still not welcome at her table.

“Phryne—” he began, but she raised her hand before he could make an argument for staying apart that night. The conversation needed to be had, and the sooner it was the sooner they could move past it to more interesting things. And if there was a hint of trepidation in her gut at the idea… well, she’d soon beat it into submission.

“If you’d rather head back to your place, we can, but that does mean having to cook.”

Jack sighed. “Dinner it is.”

“There’s no need to look so forlorn, Jack. Mr. B made sherry trifle for dessert,” Phryne said firmly. “I expect you at Wardlow in forty-five minutes. Mac, I’ll see you—”

“Tuesday afternoon for tea,” Mac confirmed. “I’ll bring the hospital expansion proposals with me.”

“Excellent. I will see you both later.”

Casting a final glance at the box where Eleanor Matheson’s finger lay, Phryne left the morgue and headed to Wardlow. She had a conversation to prepare for.

———

After a dinner of lemon sole and asparagus, Phryne and Jack headed to the parlour. Jack moved towards the drinks cart, but Phryne ushered him to the chaise . He watched her pour two whiskeys, curious; she’d been odd all evening, though he couldn’t put his finger on how. Too deferential, perhaps. She sashayed over to him with a smirk, handing him the tumbler and insinuating herself beside him. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“Physically, I mean.”

He grinned at her. “I think you’re more qualified to answer that than I am.”

“Very funny, Jack. It’s been a rather busy return to work, and I just…worry.”

“Phryne Fisher, are you coddling me?” Jack asked, uncertain whether he was more amused or horrified.

“If I can’t indulge the man I love on occasion, where’s the fun?” she asked with a charming sort of pout, setting aside her tumbler to loosen his tie.

Her fingers traced his collar then moved upward, brushing against his Adam’s apple and coming to rest on the edge of his jaw. Jack swallowed, hard—it boggled his mind that in a few months they had gone from thinking they would never see each other again to this certainty. He had no doubt of Phryne’s feelings for him, but the rare occasions she voiced it still took him by surprise. Jack slipped an arm around her waist, urging her to swing around and straddle his lap.

“What do you think, Miss Fisher? Am I fighting fit?” he asked, palms spreading across her back to hold her close.

Her hands rested on his shoulders, and she pressed her lips to his.

“Mmm, I think you’ll do,”she murmured. “Now, about this case…”

Jack was fairly certain that if station briefings involved Phryne Fisher slowly undressing, he’d have a lot fewer reasons to reprimand constables for their lack of attention to detail. In between kisses, the press of her body, a nibbled earlobe, a discarded jacket, they discussed what little they had of the case, and their suspicions that the abduction had been staged. When the hour grew late and no progress had been made, Phryne slid from his lap and stood, tugging his hand softly.

“Come to bed, darling,” she said, smiling; there was no teasing, no challenge, no Phryne in the look. It was damned unsettling.

Gathering up the discarded outer layers of his clothing, Jack followed her up the stairs and into her bedroom. Once inside she finished undressing; Jack stopped to watch her, smiling softly when the stocking she was slipping from her leg snagged and she cursed. Removing what remained of his own clothes, he climbed into the bed naked; Phryne came to rest beside him, throwing a leg over his and laying her cheek against his chest. She was uncharacteristically quiet, had been all evening it seemed, and Jack reached over to turn the bedside lamp off.

In the darkness, her fingers stroked the skin of his stomach.

“Phryne?”

“Whatever did I do to deserve you, Jack?”

“Punishment for your sins?” he suggested dryly, hoping to prod her from this odd sort of melancholy.

“Don’t, Jack.”

“Phryne, what is the matter?”

She sighed.

“I won’t be defined by who I sleep with.”

“You won’t…?” he trailed off, uncertain where this had come from. 

“I’ve been thinking,” she explained. “About this idea of my… freedom. Which is an utterly absurd notion from the outset, just so we’re clear.”

“I’m not trying to…” Jack hesitated, trying to articulate his thoughts; he would not grant her permission to sleep with other men, because it was not his to give. But he had been the one to raise the possibility, and he supposed he felt the necessity of it. Before he could find an answer, she spoke.

“I know about Rosie and David.”

Jack sighed. “Will?”

“Didn’t say a word, Jack.”

“I doubt that very much,” he said. “I need to know though, because—” he paused, shifting in the bed so he could meet her eyes in the near darkness. “Will has one version of events. It’s not the most accurate, and that’s my fault, but I need to know what you heard.”

“I figured it out myself,” Phryne asserted, “but I will admit he confirmed my suspicions. Tell me the truth, then.”

“You heard about the letter?” Jack asked, and she nodded. “I went to Will’s that night. I had to tell somebody. And then Rosie and I had a horrible row when I came home, and she went to stay with her sister for a few days. When she came home we talked, properly talked, for the first time since the war.”

Jack blinked back tears at the memory—nearly five years of pretending to communicate, and it had crumbled in one afternoon. It had been too late to undo the damage, but for that one afternoon… For that one afternoon, they had had hope.

“Jack,” Phryne said, laying a gentle hand on his cheek. “You can tell me.”

He nodded, pressing a kiss to her forehead to buy himself time to recover. The last lingering notes of her perfume filled his senses, grounding him to the present. 

“She told me how uncertain things had been for her, how David would come around for a cup of tea and listen. It wasn’t an affair, not the way you would imagine it at least, but it was an intimacy,” he said; even years later he could picture that moment at the kitchen table, feel the wood beneath his hand as he’d reached for hers, the warmth he had found there. He swallowed hard. “I’m not absolving her of her role in things, but for the first time I saw how I held her apart, how lonely and scared she had been for years… it was the first time I realised that I hadn’t been the husband she deserved.”

“And that intimacy between them continued after the war?” Phryne asked, tone slightly aggressive.

“No,” Jack hastily reassured her. “No, that letter was the first she’d heard from him in years. His mother had passed away and he was in need of an understanding ear. That was it. Will knows that she moved back in and we kept trying to make our marriage work, but I tried to spare him the details. His daughter Polly had only been gone a few weeks—influenza you know—and he had more than enough to deal with. He didn’t need my marital strife on top of that.”

She was watching him, gaze probing as if she could test the honesty of this through sheer force of will. Jack swallowed hard, giving voice to a thought he’d long held to himself.

“I didn’t recognise it at the time, but talking to him about it… it would mean having to face my failures,” he said, lips twisting in self-deprecation. “And I couldn’t. So we didn’t, and by the time I explained, it was years later and he had already made up his mind.” 

“Ahh.”

She had looked down again, sketching shapes across his stomach, deep in thought.

“Phryne,” he said softly, “this isn’t some great tragedy. It happened, yes, but that’s it. Truth be told, by the end I was thankful Rosie had had somebody there when I wasn’t. There are times I wonder if it would have played out very differently if she’d continued to have that connection.”

She pulled her hand away, and Jack groaned.

“Do you wish it had?”

The vulnerability in her voice was more than he could bear to contemplate.

“That’s not what I meant. I just wanted you to know that I didn’t make this offer lightly.”

Her hand hovered over him, as if uncertain whether he wanted her touch. He reached up and caught her hand with his own, squeezing firmly.

“Why did you make it then?” she asked softly, releasing his hand; seconds later her finger came to tentatively stroke the length of his resting cock.

Jack closed his eyes, sinking further into the pillows at her touch.

“Jack?”

He sighed.

“When I first realised that I cared for you—”

Her touch faltered, then continued.

“The motorcar accident,” Phryne supplied, biting his shoulder gently and kissing it better.

“No, that came later,” Jack admitted with a wry smile. “When I realised, I promised myself that I would never ask you to change who you were. I told myself that I could admire from afar, and that our friendship was enough. And it would have been, except that that ‘motorcar accident’ was… well, it told me that you and I saw that friendship in a very different way.”

“The stocking?”

Even years later, his heart clenched at the memory.

“Yes,” he said, surprised to find his voice had grown hoarse. She began to kiss the crook of his neck, rolling over him. “Perhaps it was my pride that was hurt, that you would rather treat it like a game than trust me—”

“Jack!” she scolded, then touched his face reverently as her tone dropped to a quiet whisper. “It was never about not trusting you.”

He shrugged. “It’s in the past. The point is that I wouldn’t ask you to change, but for the first time I wanted you to. Just a little, just enough to make it stop. Even then I couldn’t imagine… this.”

“It was a rather pleasant surprise,” Phryne admitted.

He nodded. “And then… you shifted. Or I did. Not a lot, but enough. Either way, we were hurtling towards something and it was terrifying and exhilarating and I told myself it wouldn’t change you. But before we could find out, you were gone,” he said, voice cracking. “And when you came home… Phryne, I could see what putting other people’s desires before your own had done. I can’t—I can’t be responsible for doing that to you. So I didn’t make this offer lightly, but it was easy. It is easy.”

“Whatever did I do to deserve you, Jack?” she asked, echoing her words from moments before.

He smiled, reaching up to lay his hands over her hips and hold her steady.

“Being you,” he said. “Maddening… frustrating… impulsive… wonderful you.”

“I’m not certain those are my best traits,” Phryne laughed, eyes sparkling.

He gave a murmur of disagreement. “I could sing your virtues if you prefer—your generosity, your humour, your loyalty—but I am being serious. And I never want you to feel trapped by my love, or deny yourself. I—”

She kissed him fiercely, and he could taste the salt of her tears.

“Jack Robinson…” she breathed when they broke apart, “My Jack Robinson.”


	9. Chapter Eight

Phryne stretched languidly, cracking open an eye to watch Jack’s own slow awakening—his hair surprisingly long out of the pomade, perfect for toying with; his limbs relaxed and his movements open; the slow curl of his lips as he realised where he was and who he was with. It amazed her how much she enjoyed this, seeing him blurry-eyed and at ease; it was so rare a sight from a man who was cautious and self-contained that it thrilled her. 

“What’s the time?” he mumbled sleepily.

She pushed a stray lock off his forehead. “Early.”

“My early or your early?”

She glanced at the clock that had taken up residence near his side of the bed. “Just after six.”

“And you’re awake?”

“Mmm. I’m just thinking how much I enjoy waking up with you.”

His brow furrowed but his eyes stayed shut, and Phryne smiled.

“It’s…” she struggled to put it into words. “It’s a side of you I’ve always suspected was there, and seeing it… it’s beautiful, Jack. You’re beautiful.”

“I’ve always found halitosis and grumpiness an appealing combination,” he said dryly.

“I’m serious, Jack.”

He smiled softly, looking at her. “So am I. It reminds me that you are human after all.”

She laughed. “Very human, I’m afraid, with all the accompanying flaws and foibles.”

His hand snaked over the sheets to grasp hers, and he raised it to his lips and pressed a kiss against the palm.

“I rather like those flaws and foibles,” he teased. “Are you alright?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem unusually contemplative for the hour,” he said casually.

“Clearly your brooding is contagious,” Phryne replied, stroking his cheek.

His graceful fingers traced up her arm, and she expected him to cup her head and draw her in for a kiss as he had many times before—she wasn’t prepared for him to tickle her side so quickly and ruthlessly that she squealed with laughter until she was breathless, and he didn’t stop until she called for mercy. Still laughing, she kissed him thoroughly, tangling her limbs in his.

“Last night—you really did mean it?” she asked, eyes focused on his lips so she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes, knowing that he had but needing to hear his confirmation. “That this…”

“That I want you to be you, sexual escapades and all?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to call them _escapades_ , but yes.”

He smiled, and she physically felt the relief that unfurled in her gut. She had never considered that it was a deception—she knew him too well for that—but promises were so easily made and much harder to keep; to know that he had offered it—and it _was_ a willing offer—not to appease her but because he could be honest about his needs and desires… it was an immense comfort.

“Phryne Fisher, I know who you are. I rather _like_ who you are, and I certainly don’t want you to change. So yes, I really meant that,” he said, his finger tracing the line of her spine as he spoke. Then he grinned playfully, an expression Phryne could never see enough of. “Besides, I’m an old man. It’s better I foist you off on someone else when you get too demanding.”

It was her turn to tickle him, and their mingled laughter filled the room until Mr. Butler knocked on the door with their morning tea.

———

Leaving Phryne to her after-breakfast ablutions with a promise to telephone her with news, Jack dressed—in a suit freshly pressed by Mr. Butler, a fact Jack was not yet accustomed to but which was done with so little fuss that he found it surprisingly easy to accept—and headed to the station. 

It was his first day back on the job officially, and he knew there’d be a pile of paperwork to deal with while they waited for the warrant to come through for the Matheson Cannery. Several constables and a sergeant welcomed him back with a fair bit more relief than Jack would have liked, and when he saw the state of his office he understood why—the locum inspector had clearly never met an investigation he couldn’t delay or a report he couldn’t misfile. Sighing heavily, Jack took a seat, placed a brief telephone call to Will—no sign of Eleanor Matheson or contact from the alleged kidnappers, warrant for the factory would be on Jack’s desk in an hour, Rosie was back at the house and was Jack _sure_ he didn’t want to switch places for the day?—and began untangling the mess.

When the warrant did come through as promised, Jack rang Wardlow, only to be informed that Miss Fisher had already left for the cannery and would no doubt welcome Jack’s arrival. Jack very nearly managed to suppress his eye roll. Though he’d deny it to his dying day, finding that she was once more barging ahead with little regard for the restrictions of his position was the most normal their dynamic had felt since she’d returned from England.

“Thank you, Mr. Butler,” he said, already standing to leave. “”If she does contact you for any reason—”

“I’ll pass along your message, inspector.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you be coming for dinner this evening?” Mr. Butler asked.

“That is entirely left to Miss Fisher’s discretion,” he said, then looked at the pile of papers on his desk and piled atop his filing cabinet and sighed. “It does seem unlikely though.”

“Very well, sir.”

With one last regretful look at the unfinished paperwork on his desk, Jack left the station and headed towards the factory. When he arrived, he found Phryne chatting with a young woman who appeared to be on a smoke break. Phryne smiled brightly when she saw him, indicating that he should join them.

“Molly, this is Inspector Robinson. Jack, Molly here was just telling me about the cannery.”

Jack smiled at the girl, who took a drag of her cigarette and looked at him levelly.

“What good’s talking with a copper?” she asked bluntly. “Foreman sees me and I’m on me arse.”

Jack nodded in agreement.

“I could compel you,” he said, flashing the warrant papers, “but I don’t think it’ll do me any good.”

Molly drew herself to her full height, what little there was of it. “Whassat mean?”

“Means I can talk with people above your head,” Jack said, knowing that bluntness was the most likely way to earn her respect. It worked, because Molly sniffed.

“They might get paid more ‘an me, but it don’t mean they knows everyfing.”

“No?”

Molly glanced around.

“You’ll tell the foreman I ‘ad to talk?”

“Won’t even mention your name if I can avoid it,” Jack promised.

“Mrs. Matheson is really missing?”

Jack nodded.

“You’ll wanna see Ned Cox in the office,” she said. “Those two got real cozy, if you catch me drift.”

A name for their mysterious lover. Trust Phryne to find the one person in the entire factory that both knew and was happy to supply the information.

“That’s very helpful,” Jack said. “Anything else? Do you know Mrs. Matheson?”

“Just by sight. Comes by a few times a month to check on the workers, see if we ‘ave any grumbles. Don’t always fix ‘em—don’t fink Mr. Matheson is fussed about anything but coin in his pocket—but she tries. She’s real nice, for a toff. Says keeping the workers safe is just good business.”

“Are conditions unsafe then?”

Molly shrugged. “It’s a job wiv big machines. Can’t ever be completely safe. But Mr. Matheson done ‘er best. If somefing’s brought to her attention she gets it fixed real quick, and if you’re hurt on the job you don’t get dismissed right off. Better than you can ask from most.”

Knowing how many ways factory owners got around the laws for safe working environments, weak though they were, Jack couldn’t help but agree.

“Thank you, Molly,” Phryne said. “If you think of anything else, you have my card.”

Molly nodded enthusiastically, tucking the small rectangle of card Jack hadn’t noticed her holding into her pocket. Jack and Phryne had turned to head into the factory when Molly spoke again.

“You’ll find her, won’t you? She don’t deserve to go missing, not like this.”

Jack sighed, more uncertain than ever that the case would have a happy end.

“We’ll do our best, Molly,” Phryne said assuredly.

Jack wasn’t sure their best would make a difference.

———

Taking Jack’s arm, which was pleasurable in itself but mostly allowed for a more subtle conversation, Phryne led them towards the factory.

“When did you get so charming?” she teased lightly. “I think you got more out of Molly in two minutes than I did in twenty.”

The side of his mouth quirked. “I’m a charming man, Miss Fisher.”

“That you are,” she agreed, then turned her attention to the case. “Any news from our kidnappers?”

Jack shook his head, and Phryne smiled reflexively. The twenty-four hour release period was up, and she had hoped… 

“It sounds like Mrs. Matheson was costing the cannery money with her social consciousness,” she said, trying to keep her focus on the investigation and not the victim. 

“You can’t put a price on human life.”

“No, Jack, _you_ can’t put a price on human life. I have no reason to believe the same holds true for Ronald Matheson.”

“Yes, Miss Fisher, I am aware,” he said dryly. “I wonder what this means for the accusations of negligence?”

“Well, that’s what the warrant is for,” Phryne said. “I take it the solicitor is aware we are here and why?”

“Naturally.”

“Why don’t you go speak with him then, and I’ll see if I can make headway with our mysterious Lothario,” she said as they arrived near the offices.

Jack murmured his agreement, and Phryne peeled off before the solicitor learnt of her presence and voiced an objection to her plans. Better to avoid him entirely. Spying a door labelled ‘Cox and Leigh’, Phryne smiled and ducked inside. There were two men at separate desks, both intently focused on the paperwork in front of them. One was older, with an academic sort of appeal, and the younger was keen and definitely of the tender flesh persuasion. Neither of them noticed her, and Phryne tried to guess—with what little she had learnt of Eleanor Matheson—which one would prove to be the aforementioned Ned. 

Both were good-looking, not that Phryne had ever found that physical appearance correlated with attraction quite so neatly, and equally focused on their job. The older man would be of a similar age to Eleanor, the grey at his temples brought distinguished air to his features that was very appealing, and his efficient manner seemed to be equal to the forthright Eleanor. The younger man… well, he’d likely be the passionate sort, but perhaps too young for a woman who knew her own mind. There was real promise in the quickness of his fingers though, so perhaps the better choice after all. Unable to decide, Phryne feigned a cough and both men turned to her.

“Mr. Cox?” she asked, and the younger man stood.

“I’m Ned Cox,” he said. “Miss…?”

“Fisher,” Phryne said. “Phryne Fisher. I’m wondering if I could speak with you for a moment?”

The older man—Leigh, Phryne presumed—cleared his throat. “What’s this about, Ned?”

“I’m—”

“I’m here about Eleanor Matheson,” Phryne said, and noticed the way Ned paled slightly. Definitely the unnamed lover, then. “Ned was suggested as a good person to speak with about the running of the company.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Leigh defensively, but Ned raised his hand.

“It’s alright,” he said. “I’m happy to help.”

“Perhaps we could start with a tour?” Phryne suggested, and Ned nodded.

“I can’t be long,” he said. “I have quite a lot to get done today, but—”

“I’ll be as quick as possible,” promised Phryne, motioning towards the door with her head. Ned led her out of the office and down the corridor. When they reached a quiet place, he turned.

“You know about Elle and me?” he asked curtly.

Phryne nodded.

Ned rubbed a hand across his mouth, then sighed. “I hope you find her. She’s a good woman—kind, smart, beautiful. But if you suspect my involvement, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. We had some fun, but that’s all it was. She knew if she ever left her husband she’d lose her son, and it was never on the table.”

It was utterly absurd that even a woman with financial independence and a strong mind could be trapped in a marriage for one reason or another, and Phryne found herself—not entirely pleasantly—wondering what the difference was in mutual belonging. There was a difference, she was certain. She pulled her attention back to Ned, who was still speaking. 

"I’m not sure there’s anything else I could even tell you, to be honest. I saw her on…” he seemed to think for a moment, “Tuesday, for about an hour.”

“Where was this?”

“There’s a small flat nearby, owned by the company,” Ned said, giving Phryne an address that she quickly noted down. “It was just before six o’clock. I don’t think anybody saw us arrive or leave, but…”

“I’ll look into it,” Phryne said. “How was she? Did she seem off in any way? Say something that’s odd in the light of her disappearance?”

“We weren’t talking much at all,” Ned said, “but she seemed fine. I’ve been racking my mind since I heard about her this morning, looking for any hint. But I’ve come up with nothing.”

Phryne nodded and noted that down too; it felt better to be taking some action. 

“And how was her relationship with Mr. Matheson?” she asked, curious; there seemed to be as many varying opinions as there were people giving them. 

“Mutually beneficial, as far as I can tell. I don’t get the impression they were truly in love, but she brought money and business acumen, and he gave her the freedom to run much of the cannery business. A privilege she did not have with the shipping company she inherited.”

Phryne immediately rankled at the idea that Ronald Matheson had _granted_ his wife—a clever, educated woman in her own right—freedom, and tried not to show it; for all her own opinions, she knew it was the truth for Eleanor Matheson and many women like her.

“What about others at the cannery?” Phryne asked. “Is there any strife there?”

“Not that I know of,” Ned replied. “Between Mr. Matheson and the workers, occasionally, but everybody seems to love Elle, or at least respect her.”

“Thank you. If you do think of anything at all, you can contact City South police station and ask for Inspector Robinson, or if you prefer it remain discreet…” she paused to pull a card from her handbag, and Ned pocketed it. “Now where would the Mathesons’ solicitor hold a conversation?”

Ned gave her directions to one of the offices, and Phryne headed off.

———

James Elton, the Mathesons’ solicitor, was far more forthcoming than he had been two days before, though he kept scrupulously within the limits of the warrant. It made very little difference. Five minutes with the file regarding the negligence accusations told Jack there was very little to mine there—there was a long record establishing the safety measures put in place, the accuser’s refusal to comply with regulations, and details of the injury. Jack was no medical doctor, but the nature of the accuser’s injuries would have left him unable to commit an abduction, and according to the paperwork there were no close friends or relations to do so on his behalf. A very generous donation had come from Eleanor Matheson’s personal funds to cover the man’s medical and living costs, undermining the potential motive. Jack noted down the name and home address of the accuser, planning to speak with him simply to be thorough, but it appeared to be a dead end.

Sighing, Jack began to sort through the other files produced, legal records for the last three years of the cannery and personal legal files of the Mathesons for the past ten. Of which there was quite a bit, none of it much use. There was simply nothing suspicious to be found, nor were there any noticeable gaps to suggest missing files and secrets. Mr. Elton answered questions as they arose, but the entire endeavour felt like a waste of time. Especially when Eleanor Matheson was still missing; she had not been released on time, but there was always the possibility that she was still alive. And instead of _doing_ something, Jack was stuck in an office shifting through papers with plenty of suspicions but no facts.

Continuing to shift through paperwork, Jack was wondering he was throwing good time after bad when Phryne rejoined them in the office. He looked up, raising an eyebrow; a small shake of her head told him that she’d struck out as well and would tell him once they were away from the factory. Damn it.

He opened another file, finding the Mathesons’ last wills and testaments. Phryne came to stand behind him; unaware he was even doing it, Jack shifted the paper so she could read it as well, and began to peruse the documents. They were nearly identical; both seemed quite straightforward at first—small bequests to various charities and friends, the bulk of the estates to go to the son or his guardian if he was not of age… and a very generous bequest to Amelia Harvey. Phryne seemed to reach that line at the same time he did, because he felt her hand on his shoulder tense before she reached forward to take the older will still in the file. It was dated before Ronald Matheson Junior’s birth and included the same bequest—£20,000 to Amelia Harvey.

Well, people had certainly committed murder for less.

“Mr. Elton…” Phryne began, and the solicitor sighed.

“I presume you’re curious about the gift to Amelia Harvey?”

“It _is_ quite a large amount,” Phryne said, “and she can’t have been the Matheson’s nanny when this will was drafted.”

“No. No, she was added to the wills after the Matheson’s petition to formally adopt her and her son was denied. She was, I believe, seventeen at the time, but as she’d been married…”

Jack blinked, turning slightly to catch Phryne’s eye. She seemed as confused as he was; this was information they hadn’t been made aware of by anyone involved. It could be nothing, but given Ronald Matheson’s affair… 

“How did they know Miss Harvey?” Jack asked, wondering whether she’d been a ward like Jane or a servant of some description.

“That I don’t know,” said Mr. Elton. “Shortly after that, Ronnie came along and Miss Harvey became their nursemaid.”

“And you mentioned she had been married?” Phryne said, a glint in her eyes that Jack recognised.

“Still was, at the time of the petition,” Mr. Elton said. “Those files weren’t covered by the warrant, and I really cannot say any more.”

“We’ll pull the records, “ Jack said, not really interested in another round of debating client confidentiality. “Is there anything you can tell us?”

James Elton looked at him levelly, and Jack shook his head in resignation. Time to slog through the rest of the files then, and chase up this new avenue of investigation.


	10. Chapter Nine

The following days were brick wall after brick wall. Every bit of experience and intuition told Jack that Eleanor Matheson had returned home that night and met her end at the hands of someone in her home, and Phryne was in complete agreement. But neither experience nor intuition were admissible in a court of law, and so they found themselves chasing lead after lead to no avail, and in between, Jack attempted to catch up on the weeks of paperwork that had been inadequately handled by his replacement.

Jack had found his way to Wardlow after yet another long day, hours after dinner had been served. He’d loosened his tie and discarded his jacket, taking a seat in the parlour with a cold plate of foods that Mr. Butler had set aside for him. It was the first he’d eaten since breakfast. 

“Any success?” he asked, already certain she would say no.

“I spoke with the housekeeper again, questioning Eleanor’s routine,” Phryne said. “And I ran into Rosie.”

Jack grimaced. He hadn’t seen his former wife in a few days; every time their paths would cross he would see her brief hope and then the crushing realisation he had not yet found her friend. Better not to dwell.

“Did the housekeeper provide new insight?” he asked.

“Not since the last time I spoke with her,” Phryne replied. “You?”

Jack shook his head. “I spoke with an officer at City North, who identified Amelia’s former husband as the man they’d arrested the night Eleanor Matheson had disappeared.”

It had taken them two days to track down Amelia Harvey’s wayward spouse, and when they found him he had promptly informed Jack and Phryne that he’d seen neither his wife nor his son since she’d been taken in by the Mathesons, and as they weren’t demanding money, he was quite happy to keep that arrangement as it was. That hadn’t cleared him entirely—he _did_ have a criminal record and stood to profit if Amelia received the money from Eleanor’s will—but further enquiries led to the discovery that he’d been in police custody at the time after a pub brawl. Jack had finally tracked down the arresting officer, just to ensure the John Harvey in custody was their John Harvey, but it had led nowhere.

None of it had led anywhere.

Phryne opened Jack’s briefcase, extracting one of the files and rifling through it with a scowl. There really was nothing new. The accuser in the negligence case had been in hospital. The false jewellery, a possible sign of financial difficulties, were discovered to merely be Eleanor’s financial priorities. The tram driver was eventually tracked down, but could neither confirm nor deny Eleanor’s presence on the tram home that evening. No number of enquiries or scouring of legal records provided an explanation for the Mathesons’ attempt to adopt Amelia Harvey, and nobody was talking; Amelia was an orphan born out of wedlock, her mother deceased and her father unknown, and no connection to the Mathesons could be found. 

“Did you see the papers today?” she asked.

“Let me guess,” Jack replied dryly. “The press continues to bay for the blood of the police for failing to find the beloved heiress?”

Ronald Matheson and Amelia Harvey had maintained their stories, and there was no evidence to dispute them. It seemed that the police investigation had begun to rattle them, but before a formal interview at a police station could be arranged, the media caught wind of the story and ran wild. ‘ _Missing Heiress Disappears From Music Society Meeting_ ’ and ‘ _Where is Eleanor Matheson?_ ’ dominated the headlines, whipping the public into a frenzy and generating sympathy for the husband and child left behind. 

“Got it in one, inspector,” Phryne said, sipping her whiskey. “It’s a master stroke of media relations, but I can’t actually confirm Ronald Matheson is behind it.” She sighed. “There must be some avenue we’re overlooking.”

Jack shrugged. “Matheson is friends with the commissioner. Public opinion is on his side. We have no evidence that he’s lying, bar a brooch that our victim might have worn the night of her disappearance being in the home. And even that was not a lie—he’s never claimed she didn’t return home, just that she wasn’t there when the household awoke.”

It was the wrong thing to say, because she drained her glass and stood.

“Doesn’t this bother you?” she asked, beginning to pace the parlour.

“Of course it does.”

“But…?”

“But not every case can be solved, Phryne.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said tartly. “Edmond Locard believes that—”

“That a perpetrator always leaves evidence behind, and brings some with him. It’s _finding_ that evidence. Right now we have nothing.”

“What about the chloroform? And isn’t it suspicious that Matheson and Amelia were having an affair—”

“Speculation and hearsay.”

“Oh please, Jack. We both know they were. And they stood to profit from Eleanor’s death.”

“It was primarily a marriage of convenience, by all accounts. Both parties were having relations with other people.”

“Behind the other person’s back!” she burst out.

“Phryne…” he began, but found he could not think of anything to say that was not condescending or pandering. “Will you please come sit down? You’re making me dizzy.” She did, crashing into the chaise beside him with a loud harrumph, and Jack extended his hand to rest on her knee. “We’ll keep at it until the right evidence comes to light. Why is this bothering you so much?”

“Why isn’t this bothering you more?” she shot back.

“I’ve been doing this job for nearly twenty years. I have a _stack_ of case files without arrests. I follow up with them whenever I can, and sometimes I get lucky, but if I thought I would get justice for every crime that crossed my desk I’d have gone mad years ago.”

She flung her hands up in frustration. 

“So that’s it? ‘Sometimes it’s hard so I’ll just forget about it’?”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“No, no of course not,” she said, shaking her head. “Jack Robinson would never say such a thing. Far too emotionally driven for a man of reason.”

He had no interest in having the argument he found himself in the middle of, so he stood up.

“Perhaps we ought to discuss this in the morning?”

She looked surprised. “You’re leaving?”

“It’s late,” he said, gesturing towards the clock on the mantel. “I have to be at the station by seven, Will’s coming by for an update at eight—”

“Were you going to tell me?”

“If anything new came up, yes. But he’s spinning his wheels as much as we are,” Jack said, confused by the degree of defensiveness in her voice. “You’re welcome to be there, if you’d like…”

She sighed, rolling her shoulders as if to shed her frustrations, and tilted her head to look up at him. She smiled, and Jack found himself smiling back despite his earlier frustrations.

“No, you’re right,” she conceded, in a way that made it no concession at all. “It hardly matters if I’m there to say I haven’t a single lead, and I have a morning visit with Jane and then lunch with Aunt Prudence and my mother scheduled. I’ll stop by the station in the afternoon, if nothing comes to light before that.”

“A change of scenery might help,” Jack said. “And perhaps you’ll happen to hear some gossip while you’re there and solve the case.”

“I think you have an unreasonable amount of faith in my abilities,” she replied lightly, rising to take the few steps to stand before him and fiddle with his tie. She looked up through lowered lashes, voice coy. “Are you sure you need to head home?”

“I don’t want to disturb you in the morning…”

“Nonsense, Jack,” she said, smirking. “I sleep like the dead.”

———

When Phryne woke up the next morning, Jack was long gone, but as Mr. Butler served her morning tea he assured her that the inspector had eaten before he’d headed to the station.

“Thank you, Mr. B,” Phryne said, sitting up and brushing the hair from her eyes. It was not a surprise that he included Jack in the running of the household, though Phryne had never specifically told him to; if he felt any strangeness at such an arrangement, he had never shown it, but that was what a good butler did.

Deliberately avoiding thoughts of Jack’s position in her home or the implications thereof, Phryne ate her breakfast and ran herself a bath. Selecting the most calming of her bath oils, Phryne took some time to soak as she pondered the investigation. 

There was no denying that the case had gotten under her skin—her short temper the night before had proven that—and try as she might, she could not convince herself that the problem was _solely_ the fact that she’d always solved her cases in the past. It was certainly a large part of her irritation—she rarely failed when she set her mind to something, and the circumstances made this all the more frustrating—but there was no denying that the players involved bore some blame in her current dilemma. Or rather one particular player.

When Phryne had stopped by the Matheson home the day before, she’d crossed paths with Rosie. Phryne had been careful not to say anything to Jack about the meeting, but his ex-wife had been frosty. She’d said all the polite things, playing hostess in Eleanor’s place, but her tone had made it abundantly clear that she neither liked nor trusted Phryne and would rather Phryne was not involved in the investigation in any capacity. Phryne was not too proud to admit that part of her was determined to prove Rosie Sanderson wrong, petty as that might be.

If, perhaps, an even smaller part wished to prove to Rosie that Jack now had an equal… it was an uncharacteristically ungenerous thought and Phryne didn’t stand by it. Well, not much.

Dipping beneath the water, Phryne shed the brooding thoughts and quickly washed her hair and body. Then she rose from the tub, wrapped a towel around herself, and headed into her bedroom to survey her wardrobe. As much fun as it would be to scandalise Aunt Prudence with a completely unsuitable outfit, the list of luncheon attendees Phryne was hoping to charm for information meant that something classic and relatively conservative would fit the occasion best. Still, the right materials and accessories meant that it needn’t be dull. 

Eventually settling on a green dress that displayed her collar bone rather pleasingly and the accompanying shawl, Phryne dressed and applied her makeup. A cloche with a jeweled leaf accent completed the look, making Phryne every inch the respectable lady of leisure; a pretense she was very much relying on. Blowing a kiss to her reflection, Phryne made her way down the stairs and out the door.

She stopped by Warleigh Grammar long enough to pick up Jane, running her to several shops to purchase school supplies she had forgotten before the beginning of term. Then she dropped her foster daughter back at school with a promise to see her again soon, and headed to Rippon Lea. 

Well aware that Chief Commissioner Wilkinson was attending the same luncheon and could make her life far more complicated than she really needed, Phryne drove at a speed that was almost respectable. It was the sort of concession she disliked making—really, what was the _point_ of a motorcar if you couldn’t even appreciate the full power of the engine?—but was a necessary evil under the circumstances. Now if only she could figure out her exact plan… but, well, she’d certainly improvised before.

Her best resource would be the commissioner himself; Tim Wilkinson was an old friend of her mother’s, a rare honest police officer who had been stationed in Collingwood during Phryne’s childhood. He had, on more than one occasion, brought home a drunk Henry Fisher, and once a rather more penitent than usual Phryne—only the once, though, for young Phryne had been horrified to be caught by a _friend_ of her mother’s and managed to stay on the right side of the law for three whole days. He had been a respectable connection her mother had appreciated; even Margaret Fisher knew that the passion of her love affair with Henry could only compensate for so much, in the end, and Collingwood was a far cry from the life she’d been raised into. 

That history would give Phryne some leeway in her questioning, and the commissioner’s friendship with the Mathesons and his strong sense of justice were both in her favour. She wasn’t entirely certain what she needed from him, but she was sure she could work the situation to her advantage.

When she arrived at the house, Aunt Prudence greeted her with a kiss to the cheek, and Margaret Fisher embraced her.

“Just you today, dear?”

Phryne pretended not to hear; she’d long ago learnt that denial would just strengthen her mother’s convictions, and she had far more important things to focus on than her mother’s fixation on the state of Phryne and Jack’s relationship.

“Is Commissioner Wilkinson here yet?” she asked instead, scanning the small crowd.

“Tim will be late,” Margaret said enigmatically. “Very important meetings this morning.”

Phryne nodded, and added ‘The specifics of Margaret Fisher and Tim Wilkinson’s relationship’ to the list of things to _not_ ask about. It was one thing to suspect the two of them had become close, and quite another to examine why her mother knew his work schedule off the top of her head.

Phryne knew several of the luncheon guests, and was just deciding which was likeliest to know Eleanor Matheson as well, when a man entered from the other end of the room. It took her only a second to place his lithe frame and dark red hair, and she felt a small thrill.

“Who invited Michael Orwell?” she asked her mother.

Margaret followed her gaze.

“The cellist?”

“The very talented cellist,” Phryne replied, remembering the interview-turned-performance in his hotel room and the spark of attraction between them. Not that she was going to do anything about it. Probably. “And a witness in my latest case.”

“Prudence did. His mother was an old school friend or something,” she said with clear disinterest, but Phryne was already moving towards the man.

“Mr. Orwell!”

“Miss Fisher! Please, call me Michael,” he said with the same charming ease he’d shown previously. “I wasn’t aware you’d be here.”

“Prudence Stanley is my aunt,” Phryne explained. “I must admit this is a pleasant surprise.”

“Very,” Michael said, taking her hand and kissing it gallantly.

They spoke for some time, and Phryne had to admit that she found him even more appealing on a second meeting. He was gregarious and smart, and not at all conceited. It was a disarming combination, and Phryne found an unexpected amount of pleasure in the good-natured sparring; she’d always enjoyed a challenge, and he was available without strings or complications. Or emotional investment. Not that she was going to take him up on the promises she could read on his fingers, his lips, the laughing look in his dark eyes. But still.

Eventually Commissioner Wilkinson arrived and the company was called for lunch; they had just begun the second course when the topic of Eleanor Matheson’s disappearance was raised by another guest, a friend of Aunt Prudence’s.

“Really, commissioner,” she said, eyes drilling into Tim Wilkinson, “no arrests have been made, nor has that dear girl been found! It’s positively shameful.”

Phryne gritted her teeth, unwilling to engage in an argument at the moment; it went against her nature, but she still had hope that one of the people would have information they were far more willing to share amongst peers than police officers. To her surprise, Michael spoke up.

“I’ve been following the case in the news,” he said. “I was one of the last people to see Mrs. Matheson before her disappearance. It’s such a tragedy, but I cannot help but feel that the papers are unfair in their criticisms. The police have been very thorough; I’ve been interviewed half a dozen times myself.” He turned to Phryne, smiling. “I had hoped it would be you again. The constables know their job, but they fail to come in so charming a package.”

Phryne laughed.

“The police have been working all hours,” she said. “Commissioner Wilkinson has made sure we have all possible resources at our disposal.”

“Not to mention the best men, I presume?” Margaret Fisher said, raising her fork pointedly. “That charming inspector of yours, Phryne dear.”

The last thing Phryne needed was her mother’s meddling in front of Jack’s superior officer. Again. They had refused to _hide_ their relationship—they were both of the opinion that they were grown adults and would refuse to sneak around as if there was something to be ashamed of—but they were attempting to keep a low profile. The less attention they drew to their affair, the less likely it was to become a problem; Phryne arched an eyebrow and said nothing.

“Robinson and Wildt are both on the case, Margaret,” said the commissioner. “Along with your daughter. I could not ask for better investigators.” He smiled as he turned to Phryne. “Have you ever considered joining the constabulary, Miss Fisher?”

“Absolutely not,” Phryne said with another laugh. “I have the utmost respect for your officers, but there’s no chance of my becoming one.”

“Probably for the best,” he conceded with another smile. “You’d likely be in my office every other week on insubordination charges.”

And so the luncheon continued, the objector shamed into a sullen silence. The disappearance of Eleanor Matheson was discussed some more—several of the guests knew her, it appeared—but the conversation was surprisingly light on gossip. After the meal, the group moved to a parlour, where Michael gave a short performance. When it was done and his instrument put away, he came over to speak with Phryne once more.

“However did my aunt convince you to play?” Phryne asked.

Michael blushed rather endearingly, and gave a self-deprecating smile. “I’m afraid all she had to do was appeal to my ego.”

“Ahh, a bit of flattery is all it takes?” Phryne flirted. “I can’t help but wonder about your intentions at lunch in that case, complimenting me so completely.”

“Entirely sincere,” he said, his voice was warm and not pressing in the least. It was the perfect tactic to break through her weakening determination. It was just a mindless distraction, after all; a chance to blow off some steam with a bit of fun. “I would love to see you for dinner. Perhaps this evening? Say, The Windsor at eight?”

“That sounds lovely,” Phryne smiled. “I’ll just need to speak with my colleague first—if I’m required for the investigation, that will of course have to be my first priority.”

“Of course,” Michael said graciously.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment then…”

Michael nodded, and Phyne slipped from the room and headed to her uncle’s old study—there was still a telephone there, and she would not be interrupted. Placing a call to City South and asking to be put through to Jack, she rocked on her heels.

“Miss Fisher,” he said absently; Phryne was almost irritated—really, when she was being this courteous he could at least feign interest—until she heard the continual rustle of paper, and remembered the mess of files he was still wading through. The poor man was practically living in his office.

“Jack!”

“To what do I owe the pleasure? Any brilliant luncheon leads?”

“Not as such.”

That piqued his interest. “No?”

“I did cross paths with the cellist who was performing that night,” she said.

“And?”

“What are you doing this evening?”

More shifting papers. “Checking reports until I fall asleep in this chair, I suspect. Presuming I’m not buried beneath an avalanche of paper before then. Why?”

“He’s invited me for dinner.”

There was a brief pause before he replied.

“And you’re asking my permission?” he asked, tone almost incredulous.

“Not as such,” Phryne hedged. “I was… checking in? I mean, if you were coming for dinner—”

“Phryne, you don’t need to. I can’t really get into this now, but—” he sighed. “Go. Have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

“If you’re certain…”

“Phryne Fisher,” he mock-scolded, “I am ordering you to go enjoy yourself.”

“Have I ever followed orders?” she asked, and he laughed.

“I can only hope that since they align with your wishes…”

“I suppose there is that,” she said. “I’ll be by at nine?”

“Don’t get up early on my account,” he said easily, then groaned. Phryne could easily picture the frustrated expression on his face, and found herself smiling softly. “It’s not like I’m liable to run out of paperwork.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she promised, then—deciding that the chances of someone listening in on their conversation was low, and the chances they gave even an iota of thought to Jack Robinson’s love life even lower—added, “I love you.”

He huffed softly, and she could easily imagine the small smile playing in the corners of his mouth; definitely worth the risk.

———

“You know, Jack, Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest.”

Jack looked up from the file in front of him to find Phryne standing in the doorway, looking remarkably cheerful given the hour. He supposed sex instead of a two hour kip in a chair would do that for you.

“Tell that to the criminal population of Melbourne,” he said dryly. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Smiling, she sashayed into the room and took up residence on the corner of his desk.

“I do try not to kiss and tell, darling, but I had a lovely time.”

He wanted to say “good”. He meant to say “good”. But what came out was a grunt that was only halfway to approving. Phryne cocked her head as she studied him, then jumped down from the desk.

“You haven’t eaten breakfast,” she accused.

“Uh, no.”

“I’ll make some tea and toast,” she said, “but don’t think I’m making a habit of it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he called to her already retreating back, then turned to the papers at hand once more.

He couldn’t focus. The absurd thing was, he wasn’t jealous. Or at least not jealous in any familiar way. But the awareness that she had spent the night with another man—had fucked him, sure, but it was more than that; pleasure and vulnerability and honesty, the way she wrapped her leg around his in the post-coital glow, the soft smile on her sated lips—flickered at the edge of his consciousness, buzzed quietly like the drone of a fly in the summer heat. An innocuous sound, but one that could easily drive a person mad. No doubt the lack of sleep, he rationalised; if he could make enough headway on this paperwork, he could knock off early enough for an afternoon nap. He renewed his attention to the report at hand, and tried to ignore the low hum of his wandering thoughts.

Moments later Phryne was back, snagging a slice of toast from his plate before it even hit his desk. Jack rolled his eyes and took one, then gulped down half the tea in one go.

“Thank you,” he said, lifting the teacup in her direction.

“Anything new on Eleanor Matheson?” Phryne asked, biting into her toast with a tiny moan of approval; most likely as much to tease him as any real pleasure at the taste, but he found himself wondering what noises she had made for _him_ —no. No. Absolutely not. He would not go down that route.

“Nothing,” he sighed. “I don’t suppose you had any better luck?”

“Not in the slightest, sadly. Though I did hear that Commissioner Wilkinson considers you one of his best men.”

“And who did you hear that from?”

“Tim?” she said, the rising pitch of her voice telling him that the commissioner’s presence at the luncheon had not come as a surprise to her.

Jack looked at her thoughtfully. He didn’t mind it—really, with the commissioner being a friend of Margaret Fisher’s it was inevitable that Phryne would cross paths with him socially—but he could understand why she thought he would. The fact this seemed to _bother_ her was unexpected, but before he could contemplate it further he noticed that her scarf had shifted, revealing—and very likely only to him, who had memorised her skin and knew the signs of powder—a small bruise at the juncture of her throat. _A love bite_. His jaw clenched.

Not his place. Not his business. Clearly he needed some damned sleep.

Which, of course, was precisely why the telephone took that moment to ring.

“Jack Robinson,” he barked into the telephone and listened to the caller on the other end with a growing sense of doom. “Alright, we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

He hung up and turned to Phryne.

“That was Will,” he said. “They’ve found Eleanor Matheson’s body.”


	11. Chapter Ten

A moment of silent communication was enough for Phryne and Jack to decide they they would take a single vehicle, and Phryne—with what she considered extreme graciousness—did not suggest the Hispano, merely climbing into the passenger seat of the police motorcar. She watched Jack as they drove to the crime scene, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel. She considered laying a hand on his knee, or reminding him that he was not responsible for Eleanor Matheson’s death; but the former was too familiar in a work setting, and the latter would make no difference, so she remained quiet until they arrived at a small building by the docks.

Will was waiting for them, and Phryne strode across the road ahead of Jack.

“It’s owned by Nicholson Shipping,” Will explained, jerking his head towards the building.

It took a moment to place the name.

“Eleanor’s company?”

Will nodded, and waited for Jack to arrive before continuing. “She inherited the entire business after her brother died. The building was slated to be torn down and rebuilt before Eleanor disappeared. Bloke running the job was doing a walk-through and found her.”

“We searched all the properties, didn’t we?” Phryne asked. The task had been assigned to Will’s men, but their reports had all been thorough.

“We did. It looks like she was moved here after.”

“How long?” Jack asked with a grimace.

“Awhile. Hopefully Doctor MacMillan will be able to give us a more precise answer, as well as cause of death.”

Jack nodded as he glanced towards the building, and Phryne could see the tension in his limbs. Her own frustrations had left her restless and seeking physical pleasures; it was no surprise that Jack bore his own frustrations silently. Remembering how snappish she had been about his perceived indifference, a feeling not entirely unlike regret settled in her gut; she considered reaching out to touch his shoulder, but he turned to look at her before she could. He tilted his head, his expression not quite a smile given the circumstances, but it was her Jack; she shook off the strange sensation and led the way into the building.

A crate was in the middle of the room; one of the sides had fallen open, revealing Eleanor’s body. Two officers were photographing the scene, and men from the coroner’s office stood to the side waiting for word to remove her. The smell hit Phryne—in the summer heat and stale air it was overwhelming, but she did not break her stride as she came to crouch beside the body.

On closer inspection, Phryne revised her assessment—Eleanor had been wrapped in a sheet and placed into a crate she suspected was already at the scene. It looked to have been in the room for quite some time; there was a thick layer of grime along the top, and there were marks along the edges that suggested the crate side had been pried open. The sheet had been partially unwrapped, revealing Eleanor’s face and torso, as well as the hand with the missing finger that was the most obvious form of identification.

“There’s decomposition,” Phryne observed, lifting the sheet with one gloved hand, “but I’m not seeing any obvious cause of death. And she’s wearing the gown from the society meeting.”

Beside her, Jack murmured an agreement as he examined the scene himself.

“There are no drag marks,” he said. “The killer must have been reasonably strong to carry her all this way.”

“Or killers,” suggested Phryne, thinking of Ronald and Amelia. She’d bet good money both of them were involved. “It’s far easier for two people to carry a dead weight than one.”

“Do you have much experience in moving corpses, Miss Fisher?” he asked dryly. Phryne blinked—there was no rebuke in his tone, but as a joke it was uncharacteristically crass, especially given their shared wartime experiences. Before she could wonder further, he moved on. “If there were footprints, they’ve been trampled.”

“There’s a partial over here that’s quite small, or narrow at least, but there’s not enough to identify someone from it.” Phryne pointed, and Jack leant forward to see.

“A woman’s?”

“Perhaps, but you must know how appealing an abandoned building is to children, Jack,” Phryne said, glancing behind her shoulder to catch WIll’s eye. “Even you must have a tale or two to tell.”

“Oh no,” chimed in Will from behind her. “Straight as an arrow, our Jackie. Never gave his mum a moment’s grief.”

Phryne saw the quick hand gesture Jack sent his friend in reply, and stifled a laugh. This was still a crime scene, after all, and some decorum should be observed. Standing up, she brushed the dirt from her trousers and stepped back.

“Perhaps we should get her back to Mac?” she suggested. Jack nodded his agreement and gestured for the coroner’s men to collect the body. “And while we give our good doctor time to conduct an autopsy, I think Mr. Matheson needs to be informed. I’ll be terribly interested in his response.”

———

Driving once again, Jack could almost _feel_ Phryne thinking beside him, her body thrumming with energy even as she sat in stillness; he wondered, briefly, whether she ever stopped. Which made him think of all the times she had, little glimpses of peace in their time together. Which made him think about—he took the turn onto the Matheson driveway sharper than he had intended, saw Phryne grasp the seat in his peripheral vision.

“You’ve been taking lessons from me, Jack,” she scolded, “but you really need to improve the smoothness of your manoeuvres.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind next time I’m in that death trap you call a motorcar.”

She grinned at him approvingly as he parked, and they waited for Will to arrive behind them. Jack tapped on the wheel, dreading what was to come. When the second motorcar arrived and Will stepped out, Jack and Phryne exited their own vehicle and followed him to the house. 

A brief exchange with the butler informed the investigators that Miss Sanderson would not be there until the afternoon, and Jack hated the treacherous feeling of relief that engulfed him; one less failure to face, then. Just before they reached the parlour, Phryne touched Jack’s elbow; he glanced towards her and she tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. Jack lifted the corner of his lips in reply, and Phryne nodded and slipped away, her long coat swishing behind her. He couldn’t help but watch her go. Magnificent woman.

Will caught Jack’s eye, and Jack shrugged. He’d lay good money that he knew exactly where Phryne was headed, but even if he was inclined to tell Will—and old friend or not, the fewer people who knew of Phryne’s peculiar ways of gaining evidence the better for their case—there was no chance to explain. The butler announced their presence, and Jack entered the parlour where so many interviews had been conducted since Eleanor Matheson had been reported missing.

Ronald Matheson was sitting in the same position, the picture of a grieving man as his hands worried the purple velvet cushion of the couch. Perhaps too much a picture, given what Jack knew of the marriage. Matheson looked to them, and at Will’s tiny nod he lowered his head.

“A workman found Eleanor’s body this morning,” Will said, voice gentle.

“Where?” Matheson asked. 

His delivery was flat, his expression blank; shock, perhaps, but Jack could not shake the feeling it was all pretense. He stood back, letting Will lead the conversation and observing Matheson. 

“She was discovered on a property registered to Nicholson Shipping,” said Will. 

“The shipping company? Do you think that could be why she was taken?” he asked.

“Why would you think that, Mr. Matheson?”

“Eleanor left control of the company to Franklin Doyle—he’s been running it since her father owned it—but she was still the majority owner. If she was found there…”

“We’re not ruling anything out at this stage,” Jack said smoothly.

The shipping company had been thoroughly investigated and ruled unlikely—Eleanor took a small stipend every year but otherwise invested any profits back in the business, and had been happy to leave the day-to-day running to the men that had worked there for forty years or more. The business had seemed to be on the up and up, their finances tidy and the profits comfortable but not excessive. They would, of course, re-investigate, but Jack doubted they’d find anything new.

They spoke with Matheson for some time, explaining—in very vague terms—where the investigation stood; the man kept bringing up the fact that Eleanor had been found on Nicholson Shipping property, and that implicated a company employee. It might have been shock, but given Jack’s existing suspicions it did carry an air of deliberate redirection. Before Jack could find a way to push the questions the way he would like—the last thing he wished to do was let Mr. Matheson know what he suspected—there was a cough at the door and he looked up to see Phryne standing in the corridor, gesturing him over.

“Excuse me,” he said. “May I use your—”

“Ah, yes,” Matheson said, waving his hand in the appropriate direction.

Jack strode from the room; as he stepped out, Phryne caught his arm and pulled him into the empty room across the hall.

“Your snooping was a success, I take it?”

“It wasn’t snooping, Jack, it was sleuthing,” she said, her voice remarkably cheerful. “And yes.”

He waited expectantly.

“I’ve quite struck it off with Mrs. Richards—the housekeeper—for all my being a toff. That’s who I went to see when we arrived. She makes the most delicious cherry jam,” Phryne confided with a small smile that Jack knew meant trouble. “And I _happened_ to drop my toast all over my brand new cream silk scarf—” she shifted the item in question, showing Jack a very small, and he suspected very deliberately placed, stain, “which was terribly unfortunate. Mrs. Richards went to retrieve the chloroform—marvelous stuff, by the by—and came back rather perturbed: they were fresh out, and she was certain they had a bottle.”

“Is that so?”

“So strange that it would disappear,” Phryne said.

Which, of course, meant it was strange that the bottle they had seen the day they’d found Eleanor’s brooch had disappeared in the intervening days. It would be enough to bring Matheson in for questioning, but it would be better to leave that until after the results of the autopsy. Jack nodded, then fingered the edge of her scarf.

“Do you need to go home and change?” he asked quietly, the back of his knuckles grazing the curve of her breast. “I’d hate for the stain to set.”

Phryne’s eyes drifted shut, an enigmatic smile on her lips. “I can telephone Dot—oh, no. She’s really in no shape to…”

“Ah. Yes. I was wondering where your intrepid partner in detection was,” Jack said, and she opened her eyes and smirked at him.

“Dot is a darling, and I haven’t a clue what I would do without her. But you are an adequate replacement.” 

“Not your most resounding recommendation,” he said dryly. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

She glanced down at the scarf. “You’re right though. This is new. I’ll have Bert and Cec pick me up and meet you at the morgue.”

Jack reached into his pocket. “I’ll claim it was your idea if anybody ever asks, but take the motorcar. I’ll catch a ride with Will.”

Snagging the keys from his hand, she beamed at him. “This really won’t get you in trouble?”

“No more than you usually do,” he promised. “And when has that ever stopped you?”

She rolled her eyes, already turning to leave. “Jack, I do have some sense of perspective. I’m impulsive, not unable to prioritise. I’ll see you in an hour. I might even abide by the rules of the road.”

“The less I know the happier I am,” he replied; she turned back long enough to wave before leaving the house, a wide smile in her eyes.

He waited for the door to close before rejoining Will and Ronald Matheson in the parlour.

“Apologies,” Jack said, retaking his seat and flashing Will a look that told him not to ask yet.

After a few more questions, Jack and Will were ready to leave. They thanked Mr. Matheson for answering their questions and Will promised to be in touch, then headed outside.

“What did that woman of yours do this time?” Will asked.

“Can I get a lift?” Jack asked. “And she’s not my woman.”

Will gave him what Jack’s mother had used to call a shit-eating grin. “No, I suppose you’re her kept man.”

“Can I get a ride or not?”

Will gestured to his motorcar, then rounded the other side to climb behind the wheel. Jack took the other seat without a word, and Will put the car into gear.

“What did she find?” he asked.

“There was a bottle of chloroform missing from the laundry,” said Jack. “Do you have the files?”

“Back seat.”

Jack twisted to get the papers, hoping that the constable who’d done an inventory of the scene had noted how much was in the bottle or—even better—had thought to fingerprint it. He flipped through the file until he found the relevant report.

“Shit.”

“Watch your mouth, Jackie,” Will said in mock reprimand.

“Train your men,” Jack shot back. “Your constable noted the bottles on the shelf, but included _no_ details of what the bottles contained. Making the fact we found chloroform in the house completely inadmissible in court.”

He tossed the file back on the seat behind him in irritation.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Will said. “Try not to take it out on my reports? I really don’t fancy having to redo them.”

“Serve you right,” Jack glowered.

“Right,” Will said bluntly, “whatever happened between you and Phryne back there to put a stick up your arse… you can tell me or you can leave it, but I’m not in the mood for one of your martyr acts.”

Which, really, was the crux of the matter—Jack knew he was feeling sorry for himself over something entirely ridiculous. Phryne had taken another man to bed, yes, with his full knowledge and consent. The fact that it was bothering him _now_ was entirely on him. And if he didn’t get over it soon…

“It’s nothing,” said Jack.

“I hope not,” Will replied. “I’d hate to see you ruin this with the same mistakes you’ve made before.”

Jack sighed. He wasn’t sure if his wandering mind was a an old mistake or a new one, but either way he wasn’t looking forward to the outcome.

———

Phryne beat the men to the morgue, and followed Mac into her office to talk while they waited.

“And then he—”

Mac raised a hand in protest.

“I thought once you and Jack had…” she waved her hand, “I might be spared this particular agony,” she said, lifting her eyes towards the ceiling in mock supplication.”Oh, for a man just a little _less_ liberal-minded.”

“Very amusing, Mac,” Phryne said, resuming her story a little more firmly. Michael Orwell had been a pleasant way to spend her evening, but she found the thrill of taking a new lover had not lingered the way it usually had. Hence, she supposed, relating the tale to Mac in a hope of recapturing the sensation. It was no use—the discovery of Eleanor Matheson’s body had but a damper on the whole thing. And if it hadn’t been quite as thrilling as it had been in the past to begin with… well, it had been fun, and a rather productive way to channel her frustrations before they boiled over, which was the salient point. She drifted off without finishing the story, spying a file on Mac’s desk and picking it up to peruse.

Mac snatched it right back.

“Phryne! Not your case.”

Phryne stuck her tongue out at her friend. “You used to be far more fun,” she said. “You’ve spent far too much time around Jack.”

Mac looked behind Phryne with practiced deliberation, and Phryne grinned. She didn’t need to turn around to know exactly how Jack would look, standing in the doorway to Mac’s office in his coat, hat in hand, an amused look making the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little…

“You took your time,” she said, jumping down from her perch on Mac’s desk.

“I thought you were abiding by speed limits.”

“I did,” Phryne said, voice high. “Mostly.”

“My keys?”

Phryne reached down her blouse, where she’d put the keys solely to watch Jack’s face when she took them out, and handed them over.

“Even kept them warm for you,” she purred, and he swallowed hard with endearing embarrassment. She looked past him and waved. “Hello, Will.”

“Hello, plum butter. Doctor MacMillan.”

“Inspector Wildt.”

“Mac’s just finished the autopsy,” Phryne said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Mac had already crossed the room to the examining table, pulling back the sheet that had hidden Eleanor Matheson from view.

“She’s been dead since shortly after her abduction,” Mac began. “I can’t be more specific than that, but if I were a betting woman I’d say she was gone before the police were ever called. Given the state of the body I can’t be absolutely certain about cause of death, and I can’t test for chloroform either—even if there were a test available, it’s eliminated from the body quite quickly.”

“So we’re no further than we were?” Jack asked.

Mac raised an eyebrow. “Give me some credit, Jack. I extracted these fibres—” and here she produced an envelope from the tool tray “—from around our victim’s nose and mouth. They are a distinctive shade of purple.”

“Purple like the cushions in the Matheson’s parlour?” Phryne said, looking to Jack. “I knew they were ostentatious, but I wasn’t expecting them to be a murder weapon. Surely that’s enough to bring Mr. Matheson in.”

Jack nodded his agreement.

“There’s more,” Mac said. “You mentioned that our victim might have made it home that night?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there are signs that she has been redressed in the gown. It’s nearly impossible to dress an unconscious person the way they would dress themselves.”

“That might explain the brooch, and the state of the bed,” Phryne said. “It was made, but not up to the usual standards. If Eleanor came home and went to bed…”

“The murderer could have snuck into her room, kept her unconscious with the use of chloroform, carried her out, and did what they could to obscure the fact that she’d ever been home,” Jack finished.

“Yes. And once she was taken from the house they removed her finger and put it on ice, to lend credence to the abduction for ransom theory, before killing her.”

Jack sighed heavily and looked to Will.

“Which one of us is going to tell Commissioner Wilkinson we’re questioning his friend in a murder enquiry?”

Phryne leant in towards Mac.

“And this,” she confided _sotto voce_ , “is exactly why they’ll never get me in that uniform.”

“I’m sure that’s the only reason,” Mac said dryly. “You’re a law-abiding paragon of moral uprightness otherwise.”

Phryne could not help but snort. “Absolutely.”


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're very close to the end! I am massively, massively behind on responding to your wonderful comments, but the kids are back at school this week and I'm finally over the nasty chest infection that took up my summer, so I hope to catch up before the final chapter on Thursday. But just in case, I thank you all from the bottom of my (shallow, black, but sincere) heart.

In the end, it took less than an hour from walking into the station for formal questioning for Ronald Matheson and Amelia Harvey to turn on each other. Ronald claimed that Amelia had killed his wife, then relied on him to cover up the crime for the sake of his son and his reputation; Amelia said Ronald had killed his wife in a fit of rage and coerced her into helping with the disposal of the body. Neither narrative matched the evidence, to the investigators’ continued frustration, and both parties were brought into the cells.

Will left to update the commissioner, and Jack and Phryne headed into his office, Jack taking his seat and Phryne perching on his desk. 

“What’s their game, do you think?” Phryne asked. 

Jack shook his head. It was likely two cowards trying to save their own skins, but it was possible they had coordinated their stories to give reasonable doubt. Either way, his job was far from over. He leant forward, tapping Phryne’s ankle gently to encourage it to move, and extracted a tin from the bottom drawer of his desk.

“Biscuit?”

She flashed a brilliant smile at him and took one, biting into it with great relish. She blinked and tilted her head, then examined the biscuit.

“Mr. Butler?” she asked.

“Mmm,” Jack said. “I haven’t had a chance to bake myself, but he gave those to me the other morning.”

“You know, Jack, I think you might just be his favourite.”

It was clearly meant as a joke, and Jack attempted a strained smile; he found himself wondering how many men had been fed, if the man in her bed the night before… No. His poor sleep was getting to him.

“That must be because I appreciate him, Miss Fisher.”

She sighed dramatically, then hopped off the desk.

“It’s nearly six,” she said. “Are you coming for dinner?”

“I have some things to finish up,” he said. “Don’t let me detain you, I’ll get myself something.”

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”

And with a waft of perfume she was gone. Jack turned his attention to the confessions before him, looking for some point to unravel. Half an hour later there were footsteps at his door and he looked up; Rosie stood in the doorway, handbag clutched in front of her.

“Is it true?” she asked.

Jack leapt up and rounded the desk, offering Rosie a seat as he closed the door behind her. She took it, extracting a handkerchief from her bag and twisting it around her fingers.

“Ronald and Amelia did this?” she asked. 

“They are in custody at this time,” Jack said, and Rosie gave him an incredulous look.

“Even now… even now you won’t tell me the truth?”

He leant against his desk, facing her.

“Rosie…”

“I could have asked David, you know.”

All she wanted was the truth. For him to tell her the truth. He had not been able to save her friend; he owed her this much at least.

“Charges have not been filed yet, but it’s a matter of time.”

She nodded, her face still but her fingers twisting faster. Jack reached out and laid a hand over hers and she crumpled, racking sobs shaking her body.

“You were supposed to find her!” she cried. “You were supposed to find her, not…”

“Rosie,” he said soothingly. “We tried—”

“We again!” she wailed. “I trusted _you_ , Jack!”

He closed his eyes. He knew she was hurting, knew he could not be the man she needed.

“Let me drive you home,” he said quietly. 

She stood, clenching her fists and taking deep breaths until her sobs abated. She wiped the tears from her face, adjusted her hat, donned a mask of control.

“Very well,” she said.

“Would you like me to call someone?” Jack asked. “Your sister? David?”

“David will be there,” she said quietly.

“Alright,” Jack said, grabbing his hat and guiding her towards the door by the small of her back. 

They were silent as he drove her to the small bungalow she had purchased after her father’s crimes had been uncovered. A far cry from the life she had hoped for, once upon a time, but as David met her at the front door, holding her close, Jack was certain she was where she needed to be. David raised a hand in thanks, and Jack drove away. 

Returning to the station, Jack re-interviewed the suspects before going over weeks of investigative notes once again. A constable brought him dinner from the pie cart, though Jack barely touched it. It was nearly one in the morning when he stopped, his eyes crossing at every word until he could not make heads nor tails of the reports. As he left the office and climbed behind the wheel of the motorcar, he debated where to go; he almost headed to his house, loath to interrupt Phryne’s household so late at night, but as she shifted into gear he found himself driving towards her home without thought. Mr. Butler was in his robe when he answered the door, and Jack was on the edge of making excuses and retreating—he could no longer remember whether he’d been invited or if he’d presumed his welcome—but Phryne emerged from the parlour, beaming when she saw him. 

“A drink?” she asked, stepping forward to take his hat and coat and place them on a peg. “Something to eat?”

Jack shook his head. 

“Bed then,” she decided. “That will be all for this evening, Mr. Butler.”

The man retreated gracefully, and Phryne smiled at Jack again and tilted her head towards the stairs. He followed her wearily, loosening his tie as he climbed the stairs. Inside the bedroom he finished undressing, leaving his underwear on as he slipped between the sheets. Phryne changed into a nightgown and joined him, leaning over to switch off the bedside lamp. In the moment before darkness fell, he tried not to see the lovebite from another man on her neck. 

———

Phryne woke early the next morning, heart thumping; she’d dreamt of Eleanor Matheson, of the crime scene and the smell and the body turning to look at her in accusation. They hadn’t saved her. They’d never had a chance. Phryne breathed deeply, grounding herself in the room—the silk of her sheets, the roughness of the fur throw, the scent of her perfumes and powders that mingled and made her feel at home, the soft, hewing snore of Jack beside her. The initial panic abated quickly, but there was an unsettled restlessness that she could not shake.

Jack shuffled in his sleep, an arm reaching out for her, fingers stroking her skin when he found her. She turned, smiling softly as she pushed hair from his brow; he’d been so worn out the night before. It had not been the quiet return to work she had hoped for him, and it wasn’t over yet; she pressed a kiss against his temple, laughing when he grumbled and tried to pull her closer. Glancing at the bedside clock, she decided she could stay in bed a little longer. She nestled against him and drifted off to sleep.

When she woke again it was much later, and Jack was trying to dress quietly. 

“Mmm, turn around,” she rasped. 

He looked up, surprised, and Phryne laughed and twirled her finger.

“I have to get to the station,” he grumbled, continuing to fasten his buttons and ignoring her request. He was smiling though, and that was almsot as good. “What are you doing today?”

“I’ll have Bert and Cec poke around the dock for witnesses, and I have a meeting about some investments that I can’t reschedule,” she said. “I’ll stop by the station this afternoon though.”

“You don’t have to—” he began; she arched an eyebrow in response and he blushed. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Good man.”

She sunk back against her pillows, closing her eyes once more. Jack finished dressing and came over to press a kiss against her forehead in farewell; she reached up and grabbed his suit jacket, tugging him towards the bed with a smirk, her eyes still closed.

“Phryne…”

“I know. You have to go to work,” she said, angling her head up so she could kiss him sweetly. “Just providing an incentive not to stay so late tonight.” 

He kissed her once more, then stepped away. 

“I’ll see you this afternoon, Miss Fisher.”

As Jack was heading towards the door, Mr. Butler arrived, bearing a tray of tea and toast for Phryne and informing the inspector that there were drop scones and jam waiting in the kitchen. 

“Thank you, Mr. Butler,” Jack said, tipping his head as he went past.

When he was gone, Mr. Butler brought the tray to Phryne.

“The inspector seems well,” he remarked.

“Is that your way of saying he looked unwell last night?” Phryne asked, almost teasingly; it was unlike her butler to overstep. “If so, I must say that I agree. The man works far too hard.”

He tilted his head. “You too, miss.”

Phryne took a sip of tea. “Yes, but I am much better at recognising it. Would you please run a bath, Mr. B? I have quite a lot to do today.”

———

The next few days were long and unproductive; the conflicting confessions and the best solicitor money could buy put enough doubt that conviction was not a certainty, and long hours were invested in uncovering the truth. It was Phryne who found the answer in the end, nearly a week after the initial arrest—she whirled into the station after another lunch with her aunt (where she did not meet any charming cellists, not that it dampened the flicker of pain in Jack’s chest that would not be extinguished for love nor logic) with a smile of a woman who Knew Secrets.

“Ronald Matheson and Amelia Harvey were having an affair,” she said.

“Yes, they’ve admitted as much, Miss Fisher,” Jack said, buried deep in more reports. He was not so drowning that he couldn’t set it aside to listen to her, but he found it better to distract his mind before he fell into his absurd thoughts. It was the case, the workload, the devastation on Rosie’s face when the truth had come to light. He just needed to work through it until it passed.

“It made me curious, though. I couldn’t help wondering why, if Amelia was having relations with her husband, Eleanor Matheson would gift her £20,000. I mean, I know you’re quite happy to fob me off—” she winked at him, and Jack felt the flare again, “—but I don’t think you’d pay for the pleasure. So I spoke with Aunt P, who failed to come through with the gossip. Thankfully my mother was still visiting, and cursing some bastard—her word—who’d already managed to take her for a not-insignificant amount of money.”

“I’m not sure that’s something to be thankful for.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “She’ll land on her feet, I suspect. It was that word though: bastard. Amelia Harvey was one, father unknown.”

“You can’t think Ronald Matheson…”

“No, I doubt even he’s that morally bankrupt. What colour are Amelia’s eyes?”

“Uhh, green?”

Phryne nodded. “As were Eleanor’s. Both have reddish blonde hair—I remember noting that Mr. Matheson had a type. But I think it was more than that. Why would the Mathesons try to adopt a seventeen-year-old girl? Nobody we spoke with could explain it. Unless she was already family…”

“Eleanor’s brother,” Jack realised, and Phryne nodded.

“He has a child out of wedlock, dies, and leaves the family company to his only sibling. Eleanor either knew or discovers this, and attempts to legitimise Amelia and her son’s claim to the fortune since Eleanor had no child of her own. When the courts rejected it, she and Ronald arranged for her to receive a sizable inheritance instead and gave her a home, and eventually Ronald Junior came along.”

“Then Ronald takes Amelia’s proximity as an offer.”

Phryne frowned. “And Eleanor couldn’t leave, not once Ronald Junior came along. Losing him was not an option according to everyone we spoke with.”

“That doesn’t explain why they would conspire to kill her though.”

“Of course it does. Eleanor’s bleeding heart—all that insistence on safe business practices, paying for medical care when someone is injured at the factory… it was costing money. Money that was, in Amelia’s opinion, hers by rights. Ronald was constantly second to his wife—in business, in the esteem of his employees, in affection from his peers. Nobody had a bad word to say about Eleanor, for all her modern ideas—the same certainly can’t be said about Ronald. Murder is often jealousy or greed, and this managed to be both.”

Jack shook his head. “I’ll call Will, we’ll take another crack at them.”

“Thank you,” Phryne said, coming to perch on his desk. “Now on to the other reason I’m here…” she reached over to straighten his tie, and Jack braced himself for the news that she wanted to take another man to bed again. “I know you’ve been very busy, and nobody admires your dedication to your job the way I do. And I appreciate that… balancing this relationship with your commitments is new and difficult. And I don’t wish to give the impression that I am in any way passive in these matters—”

Jack actually snorted at that, and Phryne smirked and tilted her head. It struck him again how much he loved her. All of her. Even the parts he was currently struggling with, his own damnable rigidity harder to overcome that he’d anticipated.

“The point is, Jack, I appreciate the delicate situation you are in.”

“But…?”

“The fact that you know there is a ‘but’ in that sentence is one of the reasons I adore you,” she said. “ _But_ you have not telephoned once this week. I have had to issue every dinner invitation, every…” she trailed off, looking uncharacteristically sombre for just a moment before lighting up once more. “The point is, Jack, I would appreciate a little more effort.”

Jack sighed, shifting papers around his desk. “You’re right. Of course. I’m sorry.”

“This is new for both of us,” Phryne said. “There’s bound to be missteps. And I’ll admit this is a point of contention I wasn’t expecting.” Her hand trailed across his shoulder as she stood to leave, then she bent over to kiss his cheek. “Just try?”

Jack nodded, swallowing hard; surrounded by her touch and her scent and the softness of her lips, it was easy to forget that his lack of communication had been an attempt to spare them both. He hadn’t set out to be taciturn, merely sought solitude while he’d come to terms with his own failures; it had not worked, though, and he was determined to do better. She headed towards the door and he watched her go, full of admiration for her graceful confidence.

“Oh, Phryne?” he called as she reached the door; she turned back to him. “Dinner tonight?”

The smile on her face was worth a great deal more than his overly delicate pride.

“You’re a quick study, Jack. My place. Eight o’clock. Unless you have other plans?”

“Eight o’clock,” Jack agreed, and went back to the report.

———

Returning to Wardlow, Phryne informed Mr. Butler that Jack would be coming for dinner; based on the smells coming from the kitchen, the man had already known and planned accordingly, and the thought made her smile as she headed upstairs. Jack had spent some nights there since the arrest of the Ronald Matheson and Amelia Harvey, but the evenings had been overshadowed by late nights, early mornings, and stress; neither of them had quite been themselves. But this last piece of information should tie things up and they would be free to continue navigating this new relationship and their jobs. The first step of which was to have an utterly divine meal together to celebrate the end of the case.

Phryne searched through her dinner gowns, none of them quite right, and gave a frustrated sigh. There was something almost comical in fretting over a dress, though of course she knew it was not the dress at all. It was the delicate dance of domesticity they found themselves in—forward, back, forward, side—the ease of their intertwining lives and all the things they still had to resolve.

Eventually settling on a gown of red and black that had nearly given Aunt Prudence conniptions and made her mother murmur approvingly, Phryne decided to draw herself a bath. As if summoned by the thought, Mr. Butler arrived with a knock at the door and a bottle of champagne. Bless the man. She spent nearly an hour soaking in the scented water and allowing her mind to roam.

It was the sound of the ringing telephone that eventually roused her from the bath, and when Mr. Butler knocked on the door to inform her that it was the inspector she dressed quickly in pyjamas and robe before heading downstairs.

“Jack!”

“Miss Fisher.”

His voice sounded almost strained. Odd.

“You aren’t calling to cancel?”

He cleared his throat.

“No, no,” he hastily assured her. “No, I thought I would telephone you with an update on the case.”

“Was my information helpful?”

“Very much so. How you manage to find exactly the right information to leverage I will never understand,” he said, in a tone that was definitely far more admiring than it had any right to be given how long this case had taken to resolve. “The whole thing was planned in advance. When Eleanor returned from the society meeting they waited until she was asleep, doused her with the chloroform so she would remain unconscious, and carried her to the laundry room where we found the brooch. Amelia grabbed a cushion from the chaise in the parlour as they passed; she thought it would be kinder than the rope they had planned.”

Phryne stomach churned. 

“How considerate,” she said dryly, and could almost hear Jack’s nod of agreement. 

He continued, “Eleanor’s finger was removed and then she was suffocated and redressed—the brooch was still on the gown, and as they saw no reason to throw away good money they hid it and intended to act as if it had been missing for weeks. They then hid her body, only to move it several days later when the suspicions grew too hot, in the hopes of pointing a finger towards the Nicholson shipping company and away from them.”

“What about the ransom?”

“A carefully constructed misdirection. Matheson slipped the first one into the newspaper when he had a spare moment, and Amelia dropped the one in the kitchen door when she went to make tea,” Jack explained. “Amelia knew about the boys on bicycles at the botanical gardens because she took the Matheson boy there every week, so she used that as an opportunity to slip away and hide the money, then led our officers in the wrong direction in her ‘distress’.”

Phryne felt a shiver of revulsion run through her—the premeditated cruelty in this murder settled in her gut, and she sighed.

“This doesn’t feel like a victory,” she admitted quietly.

“No,” he agreed. “But it’s something.”

Phryne nodded silently.

“I’ll see you tonight, Jack.”

“I’ll see you tonight, Miss Fisher.”


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are at the end of another casefic, and I have not appropriately thanked you wonderful, wonderful readers for making the hard stuff worth it.

Jack tapped the steering wheel, then glanced at his watch. He was early, just by a few minutes, and he took the time to compose himself as he had every night he’d spent with her since… well, in recent days. They had seen each other but not had much time to talk, with the investigation and the tying of loose ends and the pile of paperwork on Jack’s desk, but the other commitments were cleared and he could no longer ignore the niggling sensation that had intruded upon his thoughts of late.

Despite his best intentions, he had been unable to forget Phryne’s recent liaison with one of their witnesses. He found it intruding upon his thoughts at the most inconvenient times. The galling part was that it was not the physical, which could at least be dismissed as an unfortunate blind spot given his upbringing. No, it was more insidious than that, the petty desire not to possess but to _know_ another person, to trust them with all the small intimacies. To choose where to place that trust, and to be available. That was what lingered, what needled at him in his exhaustion.

Phryne didn’t see it that way, he knew—emotional and physical intimacy had very little to do with each other, were in fact held apart with some deliberation; what they shared was, to her, an exception. He was sure it was a distinction that would get easier over time.

That settled in his mind, Jack exited the car and strode up the path. Phryne answered the door herself, dressed in a gown so brilliant a red that it matched her smile. He paused, unable in just that moment to comprehend that she had been waiting for him, until she snagged his hand and pulled him into the parlour for a pre-dinner drink.

“Your dog is helping Mr. Butler with the roast, apparently,” she laughed, her earlier melancholy gone but not forgotten; Jack could feel the tenderness of his smile, and her returning gaze told him she knew it too.

“Mooching, more likely.”

“More likely,” she agreed.

They talked until dinner, keeping the conversation deliberately light. When his cheerfulness flagged—she’d made a remark about music and his mind had flown to the cellist before he could stop himself—she cocked her head and asked him how he’d slept the night before. He bumbled through a half-truth and vowed to do better, and if she doubted his veracity she didn’t call it out.

When Mr. Butler announced dinner, she took his arm as they headed towards the dining room, tilting her head to look at him as she spoke. He bent his own head in response, so they were a hair’s breadth away as they spoke about nothing in particular.

The meal itself was a veritable feast of delights, produced as if by magic. Phryne lit the candles with a flourish, her expression enigmatic in the candlelight; Jack suspected that lighting candles was usually under Mr. Butler’s purview, part of the polish of Phryne Fisher, but there was no way to ask that. And he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer if there was. Their conversation continued to be light, buoyed along by Phryne’s inherent knack for putting people at ease, and he made it most of the way through the meal without thinking about another man at the same table days before.

Returning to the parlour after dinner, the conversation turned to the case. He found that, as it had many times before, discussing the outcome with her clarified the small details and lifted some of the weight from his shoulders. This case was heavier than most, both by its nature and by its participants, but carrying it was unsustainable.

“How is Rosie?” she asked.

He didn’t question how she knew he’d spoken with his ex-wife.

“It’s been difficult,” Jack said. “I promised to make it to dinner on Thursday.”

Phryne nodded in understanding.

“Does she blame me?” Phryne asked quietly.

She had, in fact, if only for a moment. She’d paced her small parlour, slamming her palm against the lid of her upright piano, finding it easier to rage at any target than to accept such cruelty. Jack had stood by, knowing there were no words of comfort he could give, but needing to bear witness for her; when she was done she had slumped into an armchair, exhausted, and apologised.

“How could she?” he prevaricated. “We never stood a chance of finding Eleanor alive, and we never would have gotten confessions without you.”

“I don’t think grief is quite so logical, Jack.”

“No, I suppose not,” he said.

He reached out, brushing his fingers against her earring; her eyes drifted shut at his touch, luxuriating in the sensation. His fingers drifted lower, following the line of her throat, and he felt her pulse quicken, though her expression remained the same. Months together and it still amazed him quickly and thoroughly she responded to him, how much pleasure she derived from the physical. Not just in the sex itself, but in moments like these; the heat of skin on skin, the flames of attraction licking at an innocuous caress, the throaty purr of contentment. He leant in to kiss her neck and she shivered, coming to life.

“Upstairs,” she ordered, a wicked smile curving her lips as she tugged him upright.

His arms wrapped around her waist and her arms wrapped around his neck, and they kissed as they stumbled towards the staircase—everything else was obliterated in the heat of sweet, affectionate pecks and nudged noses and her hand in his hair and the moment when their smiles were too broad for their kisses to have any finesse and the curve of her waist beneath his hands.

“God, I missed you,” she murmured as he kissed the column of her neck, pressed his lips just behind her ear to feel her shiver despite the heat between them.

“I’ve been here.”

She pulled back, her eyes studying his for long, impossible seconds. He thought she would say something—he could practically see the quirk of her lips as she asked “Have you?”—but all she did was give a small shake of her head and smiled once more.

“I’m glad you’re here now, all the same,” she said.

They made it up the stairs and into her bedroom; as they crossed the threshold her hands began to tug at his clothes, determined to lay him bare in short order. Jacket and waistcoat off, tie undone, braces slipped from his shoulders, shirt tugged from the waist of his trousers, fingers seeking all the places to undo him, the words whispered against his ear distracting him from this divestment until he was naked before her. She paused as if to survey her handiwork and he grasped her waist, pulling her flush against him.

He took more time in freeing her of her outfit, teasing each button until she was squirming in impatience, huffing and sighing at his carefulness as he stoked her arousal. His eyes glanced to the place on her throat where the other man—it was gone, she was there, it was not… He blinked, refocused. Brushed a finger against the crook of her elbow, tender and ticklish, smiled at the catch in her breath he knew it would evoke.

She pulled away with a groan, moving towards the bed, the spark in her eyes smoldering, the quick flash of white teeth against red lips when she smiled igniting him; he reached for her again, pressed her against the mattress, engulfed himself in the heat of her embrace. Lost himself in the fevered thrusts and moans, the heat coiled in his belly, the smell of perfume and sex, the tang of salt he licked from her skin.

“Jack!” she gasped, her hands scrambling against his back as she arched herself closer, her voice strained, the hot exhalation of her breath against his cheek; he wondered whether she’d called the other man by name, if he’d realised how close she was, if he’d known just the way to touch her, if he’d known _her_ …

He adjusted the angle of his thrusts without thought, deep enough that her panting became a desperate mewl, every muscle taut, her eyes the intensity of wildfire. Another kiss, his fingers winding her tighter and tighter until she shattered around him and he followed, his climax burning through him hot and bright. A flash fire of an orgasm; brief and intense, leaving devastation in its wake. He dropped his head.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he confessed, his face buried against her shoulder to hide his tears.

———

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said; Phryne drew him closer, stroked her hand against his back as the panic spiked through her.

He was going to leave. He was going to leave and she had no idea why and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop him, had sworn she would never plead with a man to stay, did not wish to keep him if he wished to go… and still her entire chest felt caught in a vise, the pain of losing him already too big to fit inside her skin.

“Why?” she croaked. She would not bargain, or beg, or subjugate herself. She couldn’t. But she needed to understand why. Why, when they had fit together so easily, when they had struggled so much to reach this point… why would he throw it away so casually? How could he?

She realised his softening cock was still inside her and she bit back a whimper and pulled her legs tighter around him. If this was to be the last time… He shifted, just enough to slip from her, and nuzzled her neck.

“Why, Jack?” she asked again, voice steadier.

“Phryne…”

“I deserve to know!” she asserted, trying not to hear the tears in his voice or the terror in her own. This was his choice, his doing; he could face the consequences.

Her hand still stroked his back, soothing. She just didn’t know who it was meant to soothe.

“Your dinner, the other night—”

Phryne burst into laughter, relief flooding her body as she released her hold. “Is that what this is about?” she asked, knowing in an instant it was the wrong thing to say.

“It’s not funny!” he said, pulling away angrily.

“Darling—”

“I can’t do this, Phryne. I thought I could. God, I wish I could.” He huffed, dragging his hand through his hair. “I know it’s different for you, that it’s just…” he paused, regrouped slightly. “I would do anything for you. But I can’t… I can’t do this.”

Phryne sat up, drawing her knees to her chest as she tried to catch up. It had been a long few weeks, but…

“You can’t be with me?” she asked.

He shook his head adamantly. “No, it’s…I can’t—I can’t…”

The franticness in his voice made her want to shake him and hold him in equal measure, but she laid a hand on his cheek, tracing the cheekbone with her thumb until his eyes drifted shut.

“Tell me,” she said softly.

He breathed deeply, once, twice, his nostrils flaring. She wanted to kiss him, chase away the fear furrowing his brow, but knew that she could not.

“I can’t separate the two,” he finally said, his eyes crystal clear and certain. “What we have and the other. I thought—it seemed so easy.”

“But it’s not?”

He huffed, frustrated. With himself, Phryne suspected, and his perceived failures. The latest in a long line, to him, his sense of duty too heavy a burden.

“I know how important it is to you,” he explained tentatively. “To be… free. And I would never ask you to give that up. But I can’t change who I am.”

It was too much like another parting, and Phryne tried not to cry as she pulled her hand away.

“So you’re leaving,” she concluded, her voice flat. Let him go.

“It’s not an ultimatum,” he said, “I’d never—”

“Of course it’s an ultimatum!” she blurted out.

“I’m sorry. I… I did think that I could, but I can’t. I just—”

“You’re a bloody coward, Jack Robinson,” she said, the words bitter on her tongue; her willingness to goad him into a fight was not her best trait, but damn if she was going to roll over in submission. She climbed out of the bed, beginning to pace.

“Phryne—”

“You dress it up in honour and duty and carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders like some sort of Antipodean Atlas,” she spat, not caring what he had to say, “but you’re a coward. You’re really not going to fight for this?”

He sighed in resignation and she wanted to throttle him.

“I’m not going to fight for something that will make you unhappy, Phryne.”

She scoffed a laugh and threw up her hands, wondering how he could be so blind.

“Do you know, I couldn’t bring him here?” she said, exasperated; he looked confused, so she continued. “That night. I thought about your cufflinks on my chest of drawers and your soap by the tub and I just… I couldn’t. So we went to his hotel room instead, and we had a wonderful time. I won’t deny that, and I _certainly_ won’t apologise. But when I woke up in the morning he didn’t smell right, he hogged the bed… this is an ultimatum, whatever your intention. But at least have the decency to let me choose for myself.”

Because she could bear for him to leave for his own reasons; it would hurt, but she could bear it. But she would not have him lay this at her feet when she’d been given no say on the matter, would not be left voiceless.

She paused her pacing, breathing heavily as she watched him struggle with his own preconceptions. A tic of his jaw, a barely perceptible nod, and Phryne knew she had breached his seemingly impenetrable defenses; she reached out once more, brushed his lips with her thumb, pushed a lock of hair from his forehead, cradled his head in her palm. Her eyes never left his, reading every emotion battling behind his still facade. Fear. Grief. Hope. How many ways could she love this man?

“I choose you, Jack,” she said quietly. It wasn’t even a question. “Every time.”

“Phryne—”

“ _Listen_ to me, Jack,” she said. “I know who you are. Do you know why it took me so long to take you to bed?”

He smiled wryly and the tension in her chest lightened just a bit. “I imagine my legendary self-restraint and you being halfway around the world played a role.”

“Not even you could have resisted me if I had really put my mind to it,” Phryne cheeked, then softened into sincerity. “But I knew who you were, that you would never be a casual lover. And I had to be certain that that was what I wanted.” She looked him over suggestively despite the tears still threatening to fall. “And I very much wanted you. That you would even try to…” she slumped back onto the bed. “Jack, this was never conditional. You were never casual. I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t… appreciate the option, but…” her hands flailed slightly as she tried to articulate her point. The utter absurdity of having this conversation when they were still naked from their love-making hit her. “There are any number of reasons this might not work out Jack, but I promise you this is not one of them.”

“Phryne, you can’t promise that.”

She raised an eyebrow in challenge, and he sighed.

“You can’t predict the future, Miss Fisher.”

She grinned, then moved to wrap her arms around his neck.

“No,” she agreed, “but that’s part of the fun.”

She felt the tension leave his body, rubbed her cheek against his, nibbled at his ear. He held her close without saying anything. After a moment, he sighed.

“If you ever do, Phryne… if you ever need to… pursue other encounters,” If he wasn’t so sincere, Phryne would have laughed at the evasiveness of his words. “Tell me. Please. Because I can’t guarantee that I would be capable of accepting that, but I never… I never want you to lessen yourself for me.”

“Silly man,” she murmured, running a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually like to give too many spoilers for stories, but with this prologue I think it's probably important to mention that this fic brushes against the reasons Jack and Rosie's marriage broke down, and it's not always as simple as it first appears.


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